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ELIZABETH Z. ZANE, 


PRICE, STITCHED 
FIFTY CENTS. 


MADEaN CLOTH 
FOR ONE DOLLAR^ 


PUBLISHED 

BY JOSEPH E. WINNER, IN 
PHILADELPHIA, S* 


CoPYBiGi^T MDCCCXCVI. J. E. Winner. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 



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While the World Slept. 

BY 

ELIZABETH Z. 





ZANE. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J. E. WINNER, Publisher. 


Copyright MDCCCXCVI— J. E Winner. 
All rights reserved, 






IN I.OVING R:eME:MBRANCE OF 
MY DEAR SISTER 

LAVINIA J. PALMER, 

THIS BOOK 

IS AFFECTIONATEEY DEDICATED. 


I.ife is to some like a garden fair, 
Freighted with perfume of flowers rare ; 
Life is to others— blank despair ; 

Misery, heartache, woe and care. 



CONTENTS. 


Chapter First : — The Honeymoon. 

Dream First : — From an Unknown Uand. 
Dream Second : — The Heart’s Awakening. 
Dream Third : — The Serpent in Paradise. 
Dream Fourth : — Rivals, yet Friends. 
Dream Fifth : — The Story of a Life. 

Dream Sixth : — Forbidden Love. 

Dream Seventh : — The Breach Widens. 
Dream Eighth : — An Unexpected Return. 
Dream Ninth : — Suspicion Aroused. 

Dream Tenth : — Wounded Pride. 

Dream Eleventh : — Unconsciously Drifting. 
Dream Twelfth : — Brave Through Fear. 
Dream Thirteenth : — The Storm Breaks. 
Dream Fourteenth : — Peace at Last. 






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®orld Slept 


CHAPTER I. 

THK HONEYMOON. 

H OW hot the day had been. Even up 
among the mountains, where we were 
supposed to keep cool, we had suffered. But 
now that the sun was slowly disappearing 
in majestic silence, making the sky a thing 
to feast the eye upon, we felt better. We 
had assembled upon the wide old-fashioned 
porch to rock and enjoy the beauties of na- 
ture. 

Our number was composed entirely of 
women, and, contrary to the reputation we 
bear, silence, absolute silence, reigned. I 
devoted my time between the sunset and 
my right-hand neighbor. 

She was a dream of loveliness, as she sat 
lost in thought with a half rapt, half sad ex- 
pression upon her beautiful face. 

7 


8 


Her eyes were gazing toward the sunset, 
yet I fancied she did not see it. As I 
watched her I could but think she did not 
belong to this work-a-day world. 

My thoughts led me so far away from my 
surroundings that I found myself saying 
aloud, ^ ^ What a problem life is ^ My neigh- 
bor started as if just waking from a sleep, 
turned to me, and in a low sweet voice 
said : 

‘ ‘ Thank you. I was waiting for some one 
to break the spell.’’ Then she saw the 
look of astonishment on my face, and mov- 
ing her chair closer to mine, said : 

‘ ‘ I know you will think me foolish, but, ’ ’ 
continuing in a low earnest voice, ‘ ‘ I have 
the strangest feelings at times. I seem to be 
lost . lyive in another world and converse with 
other people, and I cannot get away from it 
all until I hear a human voice. That always 
breaks the spell. I came out here to wait for 
my husband. Everything was so silent I lost 
myself. Your voice awoke me. Brought 
me back, and again I thank you. Ugh,” 
and she shivered and drew nearer. ‘ ‘ I am 


9 


half afraid during the twilight hour ; I see 
and hear such strange things. ’ ^ 

She wrapped her fleecy white shawl more 
closely about her and remained silent. She 
interested me ; both she and her husband. 

They were spending their honeymoon up 
among the mountains. She told me they came 
to Troutville because it was quiet and select. 
I found myself in the same place, not wholly 
because it had many advantages, but prin- 
cipally because the proprietor was a sort of 
second cousin of mine, and took me at re- 
duced rates. I had been studying very hard. 

My aim and ambition was to become 
a physician. I was an orphan, with but 
slender means, few friends, and a great de- 
sire to make myself useful in the world. 

I found myself growing interested in this 
young couple, they were so happy, so free 
from all care, yet I did not envy them, but 
quite often found pity creeping in my heart 
for them. 

He was a perfect type of manhood, and 
very handsome. His hair was a golden 
brown and curled about his white forehead, 


10 


the envy of all the girls in the hotel. His 
face was full of romance, and candor shone 
from his clear brown eyes. A long silky 
mustache adorned his handsome face. He 
looked what he was, a man who respected 
himself, and whom the world in turn re- 
spected. 

And she — well I cannot describe her. 
Almost as tall as her husband, she towered 
above the most of her sex. Her hair, like 
his, was a golden hue but a shade lighter, 
and she wore it in a graceful knot on top 
of her head. 

Her face reminded me of a living flower. 
I often pictured her a flower animated with 
-life and moving among us. 

It grew upon me more and more as I 
watched her, that she did not wholly belong 
to us. I could not find the heart to arouse 
her from her reverie. I was content to 
watch her in silence, which she abruptly 
broke by saying : 

‘ ‘ Miss Dormer, do you believe in re- 
incarnation ? ” 

/‘I never thought much about it,” I smil- 


11 


ingly answered, “but I fancy it might be an 
interesting study.” 

“I wonder,” she slowly inquired, “if 
there is such a thing.” 

She appeared very much in earnest, and 
I could detect a ring of anxiety in her voice. 

“Pardon me, Mrs. Russel,” I ventured to 
say, “but I thought you were the strictest 
kind of a Presbyterian. 

“Yes, I was brought up from childhood 
in that faith and still cling to it, but some- 
how, in spite of my religious training, in 
spite of my fighting against it, I think of 
and almost believe in reincarnation. I tell 
you this because I feel I must confide in 
some one. My husband laughs at me, and 
says I have a vivid imagination, and that 
there is no such thing. ’ ’ Then she leaned 
her beautiful face close to mine, and in a 
low voice said, “We have been here six 
weeks. I have seen much of you and I 
like you. I feel you can understand me. 
Won’t you please come to my room to-night ? 
I have something to give you — something 
for you to read.” 


12 


I promised her I would, but further con- 
versation was interrupted by Mr. Russel 
coming lightly toward us with love-light in 
his eyes, es he greeted his beautiful wife. 

After we had dined I went to my room 
and sac down to think. Leon and Leona, 
what strange names, yet how well they suit 
the owners. 

It came very forcibly to my mind that 
there was something unusual about these 
new friends of mine. Their names were as 
near alike as two names could be, and their 
hair was almost the same color. They 
seemed to be created one for the other. 
Yet, according to nature and science, they 
should have been different, opposites, in 
order to lead a peaceful happy life. I never 
saw two happier people, seldom two so 
happy. I gave up reasoning, left my room, 
and the clock was striking nine as I knocked 
at her door. 

Above the soft sound of a piano Mrs. 
Russel’s voice bade me enter. She rose and 
greeted me with a grace that was all her own. 
When she saw me comfortably seated in a 


13 


low rocker, she threw herself upon a couch 
and, half reclining upon the downy pillows, 
looked at me with one of her divine smiles 
and said : 

'‘Miss Dormer, don’t you think I am a 
very strange woman ? ’ ’ 

“I think you a very beautiful one,” I 
answered. 

“Thank you,” she said, her face flushing 
with pleasure. “I am very glad I am 
beautiful. For by the aid of it I can retain 
the love of my king. Please don’t think me 
very foolish, when I tell you that I love and 
worship him. From the time I was a little 
child I saw and knew him in my dreams. 
My baby mind knew and grasped, in its baby 
way, that he was somewhere waiting for me.” 

I was both interested and amused at this 
singular woman. “ What odd, strange 
fancies you have,” I smilingly said. 

“Yes, they must appear so to you. But 
come out on the balcony. I love to hear the 
trout stream rippling by, it tells me many 
things. ’ ’ 

I rose and followed her. We stood in 


14 


silence, my companion gazing at the clear 
stream with her large brown eyes, as if she 
might read her destiny therein. 

‘ ‘ Miss Dormer, what does the w^ater say 
to you as it babbles by?” she turned and 
inquired. 

‘ ‘ It says to me, to-night, ‘ peace and rest, 
peace and rest,’” I answered, my mind 
catching the inspiration of the hour, and 
her presence. 

“Strange,” she cried, “but it tells me, 

‘ I cannot rest, I cannot rest.’ ” 

' ‘ That is the difference in our tempera- 
ment and imagination. My mind is at rest, 
while perhaps yours is longing for the un- 
attainable. I accept sorrow and joy both, 
in my own quiet way; while you, like the 
bright, beautiful creature you are, half be- 
long to a higher world. I can fancy your 
soul longing to be free. Not because you 
are at all unhappy, but you are above us. 
Some things about you we cannot un- 
derstand and few of us try. We are more 
apt to laugh at you, and try to bring you 
to our worldly level. You are a woman. 


15 


who takes a higher view of life. The 
struggles and cares of this world do not 
trouble you, unless they produce a discord 
in 3"our heavenly- tuned nature. Then you 
wake to the fact that things are very worldly 
and human after all.’^ 

How well you read me,” she answered. 

My husband, Teon, told me that was why 
he loved me. I had the face and mind of 
an angel, with a good share of a poor worldly 
woman’s weaknesses. The first time we 
met our souls recognized that we were in- 
tended for each other. ’ ’ 

She rose, left the balcoii}^, quickly return- 
ing with a roll of paper in her hand, re- 
marking : 

“I am going to give you something to 
read. It is truth, every word ; I mean as 
far as I am concerned. I wrote it just as I 
saw and heard it. You can look at it from 
a practical point of view, while I only see the 
impossible side of it. 

^ ‘ I know nothing of reincarnation nor any 
of the spiritualistic things that are being 
tested now-a-days. I have never read any- 


36 


thing treating of them. I was half afraid to 
do so, fearing that they might in some way 
affect my happiness. 

^ ‘ I would like you to read what I have 
written, and if you think it would interest 
the world, give it to it, for I feel that until 
I have given it to mankind I cannot find 
absolute rest. Correct it and change it to 
your heart’s content. There is no sound 
logic in it, no reason about it ; it is simply 
what I was, what I am and what I saw.” 

I extended my hand for the manuscript, 
and as she placed it therein we heard her 
husband approaching. Turning to him with 
a sigh of relief, she said : 

‘‘Leon, dear, I have given it to Miss 
Dormer, and I believe now I can rest.” 

“I am glad, my love,” he answered, 
that you have, for you have allowed those 
horrible dreams to work on your sensitive 
nature until I feared they might affect your 
health. I haven’t a doubt, that if you 
imagined your peace was disturbed by not 
giving it to the world, that now you will 
be blest. ” 


17 


I bade them good-night, and left them 
standing out in the moonlight, looking the 
fairest sight I ever gazed upon. 

Going to my room, I locked the door, 
changed my dress for a soft gown and set- 
tled myself to read. 

Everything was still. The only noise 
I heard w^as the trout stream rippling by, 
and occasionally through the open window 
I could hear the birds fluttering in their 
sleep. I was startled to see the sun shining 
brightly. The breakfast bell had pealed 
out its command ere I had finished the 
manuscript. 

This was what I read : 

MY DREAMS. j 

I was born in a little village one bright 
day in June. My father was a Presbyterian 
minister. My dear mother I never knew, 
she having died when I was six months 
old. 

My childhood life was a comparatively 
happy one, but my dear father called me 


18 


Strange and wayward, and often talked with 
me of my peculiar thoughts and actions. 

I was not like other children. I lived in 
a world of my own, being both queen and 
subject in one. I was a great trial to father 
on account of strange dreams and, as he 
thought, bad digestion. The nights would 
ring with my hideous cries. 

In vain my father tried everything he 
knew or any one advised. He would send 
me to bed after having eaten a light supper, 
remarking, ^ ‘ I think that will cure your 
dreams.'* But alas, it did not. 

He then tried allowing me to eat all and 
everything I desired, but in both cases the 
results were the same. The night would be 
made hideous with my piercing screams. 

My dreams were all relating to the same 
things. Snakes and flowers would be mixed 
in horrible confusion. Then I would feel 
that I was going to sleep, never again to 
wake. And a man appeared in all this as a 
friend, yet my most bitter foe. 

As a girl I was bold and daring, yet at 
sight of a snake I would cower in abject 


19 


terror. I grew to womanhood, yet the 
dreams remained. I lived as if waiting for 
some one to free me from their terrors. 

I met Leon Russel, my husband, when I 
was twenty-two; I knew when I saw him I 
had found what I had been waiting for. 

He was young, handsome and wealthy. 
I was young, beautiful and had all the 
world before me. When one day he led me 
to father and told him of our love, father 
was not surprised. 

' ‘ I saw it would end so, ’ ’ he said; ‘ ‘ take 
her, and my blessing also.’' 

Leon was obliged to go away, and I saw 
him only one night of each week until we 
were married, which was on both his and my 
birthday, he being just one year older than 
myself. 

The nights he would leave me I would 
dream strange things that made me shudder 
yet fascinated me. 


drkam FIRSI". 

From an Unknown Land, 

I went to bed thinking of Leon. I was 
very happy, and at first did not go to sleep. 
But at last I closed my eyes and was soon 
lost in slumber. I dreamed that a man of 
handsome face and form and with dark fas- 
cinating eyes came to me^ sat down by the 
side of my bed, and said: 

‘ ' The time has come for me to throw the 
burden of my sin aw^ay. I am your guardian. 
I once was your husband — you were my wife. 
I see a look of surprise on yom face. This 
is not the first time you have loved and, I 
might say, betrayed. This is the second 
time for you in this century. Not only for 
you, but your betrothed. You were both 
suddenly taken out of the world, and by my 
hand. I just as suddenly followed you to 
the great unknown. I was punished for 
my sins ; you for yours. 

20 


21 


“You and your lover were returned to 
the world, destined one for the other, he 
one year in advance of you. 

‘ ‘ In the time you remained on the other 
side you were taught the higher spiritual 
thoughts. You then returned to earth with 
such high inspirations and longings it seemed 
a place too low^ too human for you to be at 
rest. That was your punishment. 

‘ ‘ I was made guardian over you to atone 
for my sin. I watched over 3^our childhood, 
forming and moulding you, making your 
earthly conditions happy ones. 

‘ ‘ I was compelled to do all this in order to 
redeem myself. I watched over you both. 
I was the instrument of the higher powers 
to bring you together. 

“Oh! it was hard, very hard,” he wailed, 
* ‘ to see you so happy while I was serving 
out my punishment. Yet,” he pathetically 
said, “it was a just one. I want to have 
you understand w^hat I mean. 

“We all have suffered; have all been in 
the wrong. I the greatest sinner. I must 
conquer myself so that your happiness will 


22 


make me happy and content. I have fought 
many desperate battles. 

‘ ' Often at night while you slept I would 
come to you with my heart filled with rage 
and despair. I was then fighting my worldly 
nature, and sometimes it would gain the mas- 
tery. Then I would show you in your dreams 
glimpses of what you had been, and by a 
nameless horror and terror what was your 
end. You could not understand, yet it was 
torture nevertheless. 

‘‘After those times I suffered even more, 
and my punishment became still greater to 
bear. You, as I have said, had a mind 
attuned to heaven’s music, yet you were 
put again upon the earth. That is a part 
of your punishment. 

“Your betrothed is of things earthly, and 
vaguely recognizes you are far above him, 
and he cannot understand, cannot reach you 
in some thoughts. That is his punish- 
ment. 

‘ ‘ Where he fails I have the power to 
come to you, mind to mind, soul to soul. 
He is excluded, and I alone remain absolute 


23 


master. That is my happiness ; that will 
in time save me. Yes, redeem me. 

‘‘Your happiness is to know you will be 
his; heart, bod}-, and a part of your souP' 
(strange isn’t it), and he smiled. 

“You will be his always, until what you 
call death parts you. He is given an abund- 
ance of wealth, a nature to enjoy it, and pos- 
session of you as far as human hearts and 
passions go. That is his happiness. 

“Now, my child, you understand and 
know. Between this and your bridal morn, 
you must live again your first life. You 
must be what you were, and we three must 
again meet as w^e did before. 

‘ ‘ I will come each night after your lover 
leaves you, for then and then alone I have 
the power. I must do this as a means of 
peace and rest for us all. I would spare 
you the pain, yet I know your happiness 
will far outweigh that. 

‘ ‘ One thing I ask you to do. Give what 
you see and hear to the world. Unless you 
do, you can never find absolute peace and 


24 


rest. Now come. Once more you are my 
bride. Again I will lead you home.’' 

I arose, and lo, my robes were of a splen- 
dor, fit for an empress. I found myself in a 
magnificent mansion, and by my side stood 
my lord and master looking every inch a 
king. I tried to control my feelings, then 
I heard him say: 

“Welcome home, my queen! Welcome 
home, Ivady Meusa Ravenwood, to my an- 
cestral halls, as my wife. ’ ’ 


\ 


DREAM SECOND. 

The Heart's Awakening, 

I looked around and saw numerous ser- 
vants grouped in a stately hall. My hus- 
band introduced me to a prim old lady in 
black, as her new mistress. He then took 
my hand and presented me to each and 
every servant, saying to them : 

‘ ' I hope you will serve your mistress in 
the future as well as you have served me in 
the past.’’ 

I was startled to see a little half-breed 
Indian girl throw herself at my feet, while 
she said : 

‘ ‘ Zura love white lily ; Zura be true all 
time.” 

I put my hand on the head of the faithful 
girl, but m}^ heart was too full of varied 
emotions to speak. Then my husband led 
me up the stately stairs, followed by the 
housekeeper and the little Indian girl. We 
reached a door and he stopped, saying : 

25 


26 


“ Meusa, my child, I have brought you to 
your door. The rooms are not the old ones, 
but new and more fitting for the mistress of 
my home. I will leave you now. 

He then opened the door and left me. I 
looked around. The room was like some 
fairy’s home. Every luxury and comfort 
that human ingenuity could devise was 
there. Zura came to me with a bound, 
threw herself at my feet, crying : 

‘'Zura love white lily. Serve you well. 
Me be faithful.” 

I raised her from her knees. My eyes 
filled with tears at her devotion. 

“ Zura,” I said, ‘‘I will try to be good to 
you, and I know, for my heart tells me, 
you will be faithful to me. I am glad to 
find such a true friend.” 

While she was combing my hair, my 
thoughts flew back to my mountain home, 
nothing more than a hut. I saw my mother, 
a dark handsome woman, whom I loved and 
loved passionately, lying dead and cold in 
our home, while father sat with me on his 
knee and sobbed as only strong men can. 


27 


Outside I heard the dismal howl of the 
wolf and the far-off cry of the panther wait- 
ing his prey. 

Father dug her grave at night, while our 
one little lamp shed its rays from the window 
upon the ground. I pressed my baby face 
against the pane until my curls almost 
touched the lamp, in an endeavor to find 
companionship outside. 

Inside with me my mother’s cold silent 
form lay on the bed, while outside I could 
see black forms moving in the darkness, and 
I knew the wolves were coming as close as 
they dare. 

When we buried her, father allowed me 
to help fill the grave with my baby hands. 
Then we entered our lonely home, not know- 
ing what to do. He gathered me to his 
breast and told me how much I was like my 
mother, yet how unlike. 

He told me, thinking to ease his aching 
heart, of how she longed to again go home 
to sunny Spain just once before she died. 

Father w^as an Englishman. I inherited 
all the fire and impetuosity of my mother’s 


28 


race, yet I had father’s brown eyes and light 
curly hair. 

They had come to America to retrieve 
their lost fortune, and in the end found 
themselves in a strange land, almost home- 
less and penniless. 

Father and I lived as best we could with- 
out mother, until one day he fell ill. In 
my childish way I did what I could for 
him. 

One day I crept upon the bed with him 
and cried myself to sleep. When I woke 
night had cast her shadows around. I called 
to father, but he made no answer. I thought 
he was sleeping, and tried to wake him but 
could not, and kissing him I crept away 
frightened. 

The moon rose, and its silvery light filled 
the room. The awful stillness grew in- 
tolerable. I opened the door only to close 
it again, for the wolves were very near. 

I climbed upon the chair and raised the 
window, crying aloud in my frightened 
misery, but my voice died away in the dis- 
tance, and I received no answering cry, save 


29 


that of the wolves and panthers hungering 
for prey. 

I watched and waited in the dread silence 
about me. Then I heard the sound of a 
horse’s hoofs, and I knew that help was 
coming ; some one had taken the short cut 
to Camp Rescue, and they would pass the 
house right by the window. 

Nearer and nearer they came, and I list- 
ened with hushed breath, until a horseman 
rode out of the darkness right under my 
window, and I heard a boyish voice say : 

'‘Hello, little one, what’s the trouble?” 

I told him father was sleeping, and I 
could not wake him. 

He dismounted, took one look at the still 
face on the bed, exclaiming, ‘‘What a place 
for a child ! ’ ’ 

It was Paul Ravenwood, the son of Lord 
Ravenwood, the rich Englishman, who lived 
in the handsome house over the hill. He 
turned to me, exclaiming : 

‘ ‘ My father is dying ; I am going to Camp 
Rescue for the doctor. Come ; I will take 
you with me.” 


30 


‘ ‘ No , no ! ” I cried ; “I cannot leave 
poor father all alone. The wolves might 
hurt him.” 

'‘Then remain here ; I will soon be back 
with help from the camp,” thus with a 
kind word and encouraging smile he left 
me. 

I climbed upon the chair and took up my 
vigil at the window. I did not know father 
was dead, yet I had a strange feeling of 
terror when I looked at him. 

Paul soon returned with the doctor and 
two men from the camp. Then he gathered 
me up in his arms and took me to his home 
— to a new life. 

Paul’s father died and I remained, look- 
ing upon him as my big brother. I made 
Ravenwood Hall my home until I was 
fifteen, then I was sent to a convent in the 
East to be educated. 

One day I was summoned home, to hear 
from Paul that I was to become his wife. I 
did not love him, but he was my only friend, 
and I would not grieve him by a refusal. 
I became his wife while my heart was still 


31 


sleeping, and I knew Paul could never 
wake it. 

I was suddenly brought back to reality by 
Zura saying: 

‘'Me no like you look sad. Me want you 
be happy long, long time. You too beauti- 
ful to look sad.” 

I arose and looked in the mirror. I was 
indeed beautiful. Paul had often told me, 
when a child, I would be a beautiful lad}- , 
and as my mirror reflected my face and form 
I knew he was right. I descended the well- 
remembered stairs, pushed aside the hang- 
ings and entered the drawing-room. I 
found Paul there, and with him a stranger. 
He came to meet me, and led me forward, 
saying : 

” Meusa, this is my cousin, Ormond Rad- 
nor. I hope you will be friends. ’ ’ 

I raised my eyes ; I looked at him. He 
looked at me, and in that look my heart 
awoke too late ; I knew, too late. 


DRKAM THIRD. 


The Serpent in Paradise, 

The morning after my arrival home I woke 
to find the sun shining in my window, and 
outside I heard the birds chatter and sing in 
their freedom and happiness. I raised my- 
self upon my elbow and looked around. 
On a little gold table I saw a beautiful 
bunch of white lilies. I inquired of Zura, 
who brought the flowers. 

‘ ‘ Master Paul, ’ ’ she answered ; “he 
brought them. Put them there himself. 
Wouldn’t let poor Zura touch them. He 
put them on little table, so you see them 
first thing you open your eyes. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Bring them to me ; I want to see what 
kind of lilies they are,’’ I smilingly asked. 
I was growing interested. She brought 
them and placed them in my hands. They 
were indeed beautiful. 

I recognized them as one of Paul’s espe- 
cial pride and care, and I smiled as Iremem- 
S2 


33 


bered the many quarrels they caused be- 
tween us when I was a little child and he 
a hot-headed, impetuous boy. In the center 
of the flowers I found a note. 

“I bring you these flowers as a peace offering. 
I hope you will accept them in the spirit I send 
them. You can always tell what my thoughts are 
concerning you by the morning offering I send 
you. Don’t grow superstitious over this. It is only 
a whim of mine and it will afford amusement for us 
both. You can know my moods by the flowers 
you receive. I will use them to transmit my 
thoughts to you.” 

The letter dropped from my hand, and a 
chill crept through me that was not caused 
by the morning air. I sprang from my bed 
and quickly dressed. I learned that the 
gentlemen had breakfasted and gone out, 
Paul leaving word that I must not be dis- 
turbed. 

Zura brought breakfast to my room, and 
after eating it with a relish, I sallied forth 
to visit my childhood haunts. 

What a glorious morning it was ! The 
birds and flowers looked radiant with happi- 
ness and sunshine. 


34 


As I wandered in happy freedom among 
the flowers and trees I realized what a lovely 
home it was. I felt very grateful to Paul 
for what he had done for me, yet I shud- 
dered when I remembered I was his wife. 

At one moment my heart went out to him 
in gratitude and thankfulness, and in an- 
other I was grinding my teeth with rage be- 
cause I was no longer a free and careless girl. 

Paul, I somehow thought, did not love 
me as a husband should love his wife. 
But I knew he took pride in possessing me 
as if I was some great doll. He was kind, 
and heaped all manner of loving attention 
upon me, yet it was all hateful to me. I 
longed to have him as I did in my happy 
childhood — father and brother in one. 

I was beginning to learn that too much love 
lavished upon one is sometimes worse than 
none at all. My heart told me I could never 
love him as a husband, yet I knew I could 
love if I allowed myself to do so, for my 
heart had whispered that secret to me, alas ! 
too late. 

I reached a beautiful little house that I 


35 


knew to be the bird and flower house. How 
I had loved the place, with its bright flowers 
and white cooing doves. It was one of 
Paul’s hobbies, when a boy, and he had not 
given it up even now that he was grown to 
manhood. 

I was eagerly anxious to see what im- 
provements he had made, for he told me 
he had a surprise in store for me when I saw 
‘‘Paradise.” That was what we called it. 

I tripped up the marble steps, two at a 
time, in my eagerness to enter. How grand 
it was. A white dove circled my head, then 
perched upon my shoulder ; but to me it had 
a startled, frightened look. As I stroked it 
with my hand, it softly pecked my fingers, 
as if it recognized my loving caress. 

I heard voices, and I followed in the direc- 
tion from which the sound came. Back of a 
large palm I found Paul and Mr. Radnor. 
They were standing in front of a large glass 
case covered with flowers, and supported by 
marble pillars and, oh horrors ! in it I saw the 
largest snake I ever beheld. I shuddered and 
started back in frightened horror, and the 


36 


dove flew away with a wild fluttering of its 
wings. 

Paul caught my hand and drew me to 
him, crying : 

“You little coward, you were going to 
run away without even bidding us good- 
morning. ’ ' 

I raised my eyes to those of Mr. Radnor, 
and faltered a weak good-morning, but in 
his eyes I read S3unpathy for my fears. 
Then I glanced at Paul, and read possession 
and mastery in his face, and I knew then, 
when my husband held my hand with a firm 
un^delding grasp, the other held my heart 
b}^ the golden chains of love, and I knew 
just as well as if he had told me on his 
bended knee that he loved me. 

“ Please, Pr^vd, let go my hand,” I cried ; 
“you hurt me. I imagine I am a poor little 
bird, and you mean to give me to that awful 
snake.” 

‘ ‘ Strange, I was thinking the same thing, ’ ’ 
Mr. Radnor cried ; “I thought of the dove 
and the serpent - beg pardon. Raven wood,” 
he quickly said, “I meant, of course — ” 


37 


‘‘No apology is neceesary,” Paul loftily 
answered. “ You are two silly sentimental 
young people. Of course, I can’t expect 
you to look upon the common sense side 
of life as an old fellow like me. I say, Rad- 
nor, won’t you show Meusa the improve- 
ments on the place? I have some urgent 
business to attend to.” 

“Don’t trouble Mr. Radnor,” I cried, for 
I dreaded to be left alone with him, for I 
knew we were 

“ Two souls with but a single thought, 

Two hearts that beat as one.’^ 

‘ ‘ Nothing will be a trouble for me that I 
do for you,” Mr. Radnor answered, and oh ! 
what music there was in his voice. 

Then, before I could reply, Paul strode off 
leaving us alone. I knew Paul’s habits of 
old. He was an old bookworm and forgot 
everything else when with his pet volumes 
in his study. I looked at my companion, 
and he smilingly said : 

‘ ‘ I think you understand what his urgent 
business is. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, ” I laughed ; ‘ ‘ one of his pet books 


38 


Upon some dry subject, and imprisonment 
in the library for the rest of this beautiful 
morning. Come away,” I cried, as I cast 
my eyes upon the snake; “I don’t care to 
remain here. It makes me shudder when I 
think of that nasty thing in our beautiful 
Paradise.” 

He smiled as we walked away. Then he 
told me how Paul had procured the snake 
at a big expense because he loved it, “ and 
he really thought it would please you,” Mr. 
Radnor said. “ I know he must feel a little 
disappointed. ’ ’ 

‘‘That is just like Paul,” I answered; 
“he has none of my woman’s fears and of 
course thinks my dislike for it silly. ’ ^ 

We sat down on a bench in a nook near 
the fountain. He gathered me a bunch of 
flowers, beautiful white violets and purple 
pansies. I looked at him while he was ar- 
ranging them. 

He was just the opposite of Paul. His 
whole appearance called to my mind the 
knights of old who lived for love, and when 
the call came died for it. 


39 


He was not as handsome as Paul, but on 
his face was loving sympathy, while upon 
Paul’s you could read contempt and pity for 
other’s weaknesses. 

He placed the flowers in my lap, remark- 
ing : 

‘‘To me there is nothing sweeter than 
violets and pansies. Do you know, looking 
at the violets reminds me of you ? I know 
they are no purer than your thoughts. ’ ’ 

I found my face Amshing crimson, for at 
that very moment I was rebelling at my 
fate, and wondering why I could not have 
loved and married this man in place of Paul, 
whom I respected but could never love. He 
very kindly ignored my crimson face and 
continued. 

“Lady Ravenwood, I hope we will be 
friends. I feel very lonely at times. ’ ’ His 
lips quivered as he continued: “I had a dear 
sister, but she died. We were all alone in 
the world, she and I ; now that she has left 
me I have no one. I have some far-off rel- 
atives I never knew, but I mean friends. 
It was very kind in Paul to ask me here 


40 


when he heard of my loss ; I came, and even 
if we are not altogether congenial compan- 
ions, my coming has brightened up my sad 
existence and put a little sunshine in my 
sorrowful life. I feel I could live again. I 
mean live, not merely exist, if you will try 
to like me and be my friend.’* 

hike him ? I had not known him twenty- 
four hours, and I knew I loved him, yet I 
dared not dwell upon that word. Reason 
forbade it and warped it into like. Now he 
was asking me to be his friend ; to try and 
like him, while the trial on my part must be 
not to like him, not to love him. 

But I did what other blind foolish mortals 
do — made myself believe I could stamp out 
love by friendship. I had enough faith in 
myself to think I could be a sister to the 
man I loved, while all the time I knew he 
loved me. 

'‘I will try and be a sister to you,” I re- 
plied, with beating heart and downcast eyes, 
and all the time I hated myself for saying 
it. ‘‘I will try to be your friend.” 

“Do you think we can be friends?” he 


41 


asked. “I notice your hair and eyes are 
the color of mine. According to learned men 
we should be opposites in order to be firm 
friends.’’ 

'‘I don’t think it depends on outward 
appearances. It is heart speaks to heart, 
soul to soul ; the inner self is formed by the 
higher powers, while our outward selves are 
formed by man and nature and other influ- 
ences. I only know what my reason tells 
me. What another ma}^ think right, might 
be wrong for me. Then why should I be 
wrong when my own reason can guide me 
right?” 

”You are quite a believer in your own 
theories, I see,” he smilingly answered. 
“But come ; I will show you the new 
horses. I think Paul a lucky fellow. All 
he does is wish, and lo ! it is gratified.” 

I had the opportunity to see in numerous 
ways what a noble man he was ; how kind 
and gentle. Perhaps too gentle when the 
time came for him to withstand some great 
temptation. But now it seemed to me so 
beautiful. It was such a contrast to Paul’s 


42 


way. He was inclined to laugh at pain as 
well as pleasure. 

I looked at the clock on the tower. It 
was half-past one. “Hunch time,” I cried. 
We hastened to the house, found Paul in 
the drawing-room, lazily sitting in his favor- 
ite arm-chair. 

After lunch I went to my room and took 
a long refreshing nap. I woke to find Zura 
softly going about talking in a low voice. 

“What is the matter, Zura?” I inquired. 

“Me no like it,” she cried. “Ugh! 
make me think of bad spirit.” 

“What makes you think of bad spirit?” 
I again inquired. 

“Snake,” she abruptly said. “ Me hate, 
me like to kill. Me feel much trouble 
come. Ugh!” 

“Don’t be foolish,” I qu’ckly answered, 
for I saw the poor little Indian was very 
much in earnest. 

She did not heed my interruption, but 
continued, ‘ ‘ Master love you, he love snake. 
How can he love good spirit and bad one 
too?” 


43 


I comforted her as best I could, and then 
dressed and went to the drawing-room. Sit- 
ting down by the window I commenced to 
sing softly to myself. 

Paul soon entered with a letter in his 
hand. He told me it was from an old friend 
of his and that she was coming to pay us a 
visit. She is a widow, he said, ‘‘ and I 
met her while you were at school.’^ 

It did not interest me greatly, and after 
giving the necessary orders for her comfort 
I quite forgot about it. 

After dinner Mr. Radnor came to me and 
told me Paul had gone down to Paradise. 
We both smiled. It did sound odd. We 
chatted for some time, and each discovered 
that the other sang. I sat down and played 
the accompaniment, our voices blending 
nicely. We came to a trio we were anxious 
to try. 

Mr. Radnor volunteered to go in search 
of Paul. I arose, saying I would go with 
him, and he said, “We will first go to Para- 
dise.” We smiled again. 

We walked in silence, and I entered the 


44 


place, not without a vshudder, for now that 
the serpent had entered my Paradise I did 
not like it. We found Paul where I ex- 
pected we would, in front of the case con- 
taining the snake. In his hand he held a 
dove. 

I quickly cried, ‘‘What are you doing, 
Paul?’^ 

“Wait and see,” he laughed, sliding the 
glass at the top of the case, and dropping 
the bird inside. 

I caught his arm and cried, “Oh, Paul! 
don’t. How cruel. That awful snake will 
hurt it.” 

He seized my hand, and laughed in the 
same way he did when I was a child and he 
my master, in evident enjoyment of my 
fears. 

“You are a little coward. Hurt it,” he 
said, ‘ ‘ why the snake will swallow it. That 
only goes to prove the weaker must succumb 
to the stronger. The snake in this case is 
the stronger, and if the dove can’t eat the 
snake, why naturall}^ the snake will eat the 
dove. That is all.” 


45 


All the hot blood that I inherited from 
my mother leaped in my veins. I turned 
to him, crying : 

‘^Paul Ravenwood, you profess to be a 
man, a gentleman. Yet you put that help- 
less dove in a place where it has no chance 
to battle for its life. You doom it to death, 
and then because it cannot save itself you 
cry it is the weaker of the two. Open the 
door and then see which is the stronger, the 
serpent or the dove. Would the poor dove 
sit in the farthest corner and patiently wait 
for its death? No!’’ I screamed, my face 
almost purple with rage, '‘it would stretch 
out its wings and fly far away. I hate 
you 1” 

He smiled. Such an indulgent pitying 
smile that made me more furious than ever. 

“Yes, the dove might fly if the door was 
open,” he said in a smooth even tone, 
‘ ‘ providing the snake did not charm it and 
hold it motionless until it triumphed. Shall 
I try it?” with another of his awful superior 
laughs. He caught my hand, saying: 

“ It is too late, it couldn’t fly now.” 


46 


I forgot all my rage when he called my 
attention to that poor little dove. It crouched 
in a corner, its e3^es distended with fear and 
terror. It would raise its wings spasmodi- 
cally, then look at the snake apparently fas- 
cinated. The snake was moving its body 
and darting its tongue as if it knew the tor- 
ture it was inflicting upon its pre3^ 

‘‘Let me go,” I screamed; ”I won’t 
stay.” 

Paul clutched my arm with a firm un- 
yielding grasp and cahnl}^ said : 

” Meusa, 3^011 will stay. I am ashamed 
of you. You must, I say, must learn to 
control 3^our feelings, and now is just as 
good a time as any to begin.” 

I saw there was no hope for my escape. 
I looked again, the snake was toying with 
its victim. I cast a glance of entreaty at 
Mr. Radnor, yet had I stopped to think I 
might have known he was powerless to help 
me. 

In that one glance I vSaw his long white 
fingers pressed in his hands until I knew 
the nails were cutting the flesh, but he 


47 

stood motionless, his eyes filled with love 
and pity for me. 

I saw Paul’s dark handsome face w^earing 
a look of enjoyment ; the snake had reached 
the dove. There was a fluttering of white 
wings and I fainted. 


DRKAM FOURTH. 


Rivals^ Yet Friends, 

I found the accustomed bouquet upon my 
table the next morning, but it was of white 
roses, with the exception of a delicate pink 
one, which was half concealed. It set me 
thinking, seriously thinking. 

All the horrible details of the night previ- 
ous came back to me. I again saw Paul’s 
face, and I knew he did not yet realize that 
I had passed my childhood days and was 
now a woman. 

He still looked upon me as a child who 
belonged to him, to scold, pet and torture 
as he pleased. 

But to me all things were changed. I was a 
woman, and I wanted to be treated as one ; 
I was his wife, and I rebelled at his forced 
rule. And again I found my heart rebelling 
against fate for making me his wife. 

I realized what an effort it must have cost 
Mr. Radnor to control himself, for I knew he 
48 


49 


longed to knock Paul senseless at my feet. 
I was always sympathetic and tender-hearted 
as a child, and it was the cause of many of 
our quarrels. 

Zura brought me a letter, with the remark 
that '‘Master told me to say you needn’t 
hurry.” I opened the note and read : 
“Dkar Mkusa:— 

‘ ‘ I trust you are over your fright, I have still 
faith in my methods, and hope to make you Drave 
and strong yet. Ormond and I don’t agree, but of 
course he doesn’t count. 

“Mrs. Archibald arrives this morning. I am 
going to meet her. Won’t be back much before 
lunch. 

“Paui,.” 

I fell to wandering who this woman was. 
I heard Paul speak of her as a very good 
friend; further than that I knew nothing of 
her. 

After I ate my breakfast I went out in 
the grounds. It being very warm, I took 
my book and went down to the lake; select- 
ing a shady nook, I began to read. I soon 
grew drowsy and fell asleep, with the book 
under my head for a pillow. 


60 


I dreamed of a future for me. Such a one 
could not exist save in dreams. I opened 
my eyes in a sudden, jerky way, and saw 
Paul gazing down upon me. 

“What a foolish child you are,” he said. 
“ 1 have been hunting everywhere for you. 
It is almost lunch time and I know Mrs. 
Archibald must be almost famished. ’ ’ Tak- 
ing me by the hands, he brought me to my 
feet, saying, “ Meusa, I wonder why I mar- 
ried you. Sometimes I like you, nay almost 
love you ; then again I positively hate you 
for your wall and independence, and I feel 
as if not one sympathetic thought existed 
between us.” 

‘ ' Perhaps, ’ ’ I suggested, gathering up my 
hat and book, ‘ ‘ we weren’t intended for one 
another.” 

“Nonsense,” he cried; “that is all rub- 
bish. I believe there is more in nature and 
common sense to draw human beings to- 
gether than that thing every one is talking 
of and but few have felt. I mean love.” 

“ Nevermind,” I cried, anxious to escape 
an argument ; ‘ ‘ tell me of our guest. Is she 


51 


tall, or is she small? Is she dark, or is she 
fair?” 

“lyook for 3"ourself,” he answered. 

I looked and, womanlike, was at once in- 
terested. I saw a little woman, with a sweet 
face and raven hair that looked almost pur- 
ple in the sunlight ; her clear olive skin 
looked perfect in its frame of jet black hair ; 
her dress was a creamy white, relieved by a 
bunch of jack roses. I know I looked my ad- 
miration, for she smiled as her e3^es met mine. 

Paul introduced us, remarking, ‘ ‘ I hope 
you may be friends. ’ ’ 

I apologized for my untidy appearance, 
and, excusing myself, left them to change 
my soiled morning gown for something more 
becoming. 

I was rushing along the hall and ran 
right into Mr. Radnor’s arms. I made a 
startled exclamation and apologized for my 
rudeness. But how my heart did beat when 
I heard him say: 

*^No apology is necessary. I am glad I 
was the cause of your stumbling, for I saved 
you a fall. ’ ’ 


52 


I blushed, but answered quickl}^ “I was 
hurrying to change my dress. I have been 
asleep all the morning down by the lake.’’ 

I saw you,” he quietly answered; 
was fishing from the opposite side. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What did you catch ? ” I ga^dy cried. 
He stooped and w^hispered .something in 
my ear that made the hot blood surge to my 
face, and I flew to my room for shelter. 

(Notk. — Here Mrs. Russel’s manuscript 
grew so confused and disconnected that Miss 
Dormer was obliged to recopy it in the third 
person. ) 

Below on the balcony Paul was in earnest 
conversation with Mrs. Archibald. Her eyes 
were flashing, as she in a low voice said: 

” You ask of me an impossibility. How 
can I do what no human heart will do ? I 
will do my best, but I fear that will be very 
bad. You told me I should be mistress 
of 3^our heart and home; you basely de- 
ceived me by placing your queenly protege 
in my place. I gave you all I possessed ; 
1113^ life, my heart, and how have you re- 
paid me ? ’ ’ 


53 


He saw she was about to cry, and quickly 
answered : 

‘‘Edna, why not try to be reasona- 
ble? You shall never know what the 
want of money is; 3^ou shall have half I 
possess, if 3"ou desire it, but I am afraid I 
can no longer love 3"ou. There is not much 
love in my nature. I cannot love as most 
men do. I love my books and pet theories 
as some men love women. I am married 
now, and I fear what love I have to give is 
given my wife. Yet I could live without 
her and be very happ3\ I fear you cannot 
understand me, but in time I hope you will. ’ ’ 

“No, I do not understand you, ’ ’ she hotly 
cried, ‘ ‘ nor do 3^ou know ^^ourself . Perhaps 
the day will come when you will know what 
love is. Then you can feel what I have suf- 
fered. Y ou have been accustomed to simply 
ask and it was yours. Some day you may 
have to beg for what you now throw care- 
lessly away. Money, ’ ’ she bitterly continued, 
“always money. You men play with our 
hearts, you steal our very existence, then 
repay our devotion by offering money to 


54 


heal our heartaches. I want money, yes, 
but only when it gives me you and makes me 
happy with you. Oh, Paul !” and her lip 
quivered painfully, ‘ ‘ take me back to your 
heart once more ; I don’ t ask you that which 
is impossible; I don’t ask you to neglect 
your wife ; I only ask you for the time you 
can spare without the neglect of any duty. 
I know the world would condemn me, would 
call me wrong, but Paul, it can’t see my 
heart or feel the heavy aching there ; I don’t 
think I am wrong to ask of you a little love. 
That is all I ask, Paul ; all I ask.” 

He was moved by her words, her devo- 
tion. She was so childish, so pretty in her 
misery. But he knew he must not raise 
false hopes within her. 

After giving her time to control her emo- 
tions he gently said : 

' ‘ Edna, I always liked you for the amount 
of good common sense you possessed. You 
attracted me more on that account than any 
other. It was very refreshing to me to sit 
down with a woman young, beautiful and 
talented, who could sympathize with my 


55 


hobbies and talk common sense, and sound 
sense at that, with me. My dear girl, let 
that sense rule you now. I knew you would 
be unhappy here, but you were determined 
to come, and I have allowed you to have 
your own way. Get what happiness you 
can while you are here. A friend to you I 
will always be. My money and thoughts, 
if they will be of service to you, shall be 
yours. Do as you please, but you must not 
interfere with Meusa as far as her happiness 
is concerned. You must not try to induce 
me to go back to the old life ; if you do, I 
may grow to hate you where now I respect 
and esteem you.” 

“Thank you for the warning,” she re- 
plied ; “I shall not interfere with Tady 
Ravenwood, for the simple reason she does 
not possess your love, and that is all I ask.” 

She had grasped the situation, and saw at 
a glance she must go slowly if she wished 
to conquer in the end. She loved this man ; 
had sacrificed much for him. Then she 
found, like many others, that after a few 
months she was thrown aside like an old 


56 


glove, torn and soiled, the stains a continual 
reminder of the time when they did not 
exist. 

‘Taul,^’ she said, forcing back her emo- 
tions with a mighty effort, “I will do as 
you say. I will try to be a friend to 3^our 
wife in all things, and of course true to her, 
means true to you also.’' 

He knew she meant what she said, for a 
promise was to her a sacred thing. He took 
her little hand, stroked it gently, and said : 

' ‘ I knew you would prove the brave girl 
I have always believed you to be, and some 
day I shall reward you by finding 5^ou a rich 
husband, ’ ’ and smiling, he walked away. 

She looked after him and muttered, ' ‘ Yes, 
I think you will. But the man of your 
choice, I think, will be a surprise to you.” 

Then she vehemently kissed the hand he 
had held until there were great red marks 
upon it. 

She was startled to hear Lady Ravenwood 
say: 

‘ ‘ The luncheon bell has rung and I came 
to find you.” 


57 


Edna raised her eyes to those of her rival 
and was startled to hear her say: 

‘*Mrs. Archibald, I am so glad you 
came. I am sure I shall like you. Won’t 
you try to be my friend ? I am so lonely. ’ ’ 

Edna’s eyes dropped to the floor as she 
slowly answered : 

“I will,” and silently followed her rival 
and hostess to the dining-room 


DRKAM FIFTH. 


The Story of a Life, 

The first morning after Edna’s arrival 
proved to be a dreary rainy one. The flow- 
ers stood drinking in the refreshing drops, 
grateful for the change. But inside the 
house the ladies looked gloomy and sad. 

Eady Ravenwood had planned a ride over 
the country with her guest and Ormond. 
Now the steady down-pouring rain spoiled 
it all. 

Ormond had gone to a neighbor’s house 
on an errand, and Paul had shut himself up 
with his books, leaving the ladies alone to 
amuse themselves as best they could. 

They were sitting in low rockers by the 
window. Meusa was embroidering some 
fine table linen and Edna was trying to get 
interested in a new novel. Silence reigned 
for some time; when Edna shut her book 
with a snap, saying: 

‘^Eady Ravenwood, you are a very for- 
tunate woman, and ought to be a very happy 
68 


69 


one. You have a loving husband, and a 
handsome one ; money and plenty of it ; a 
fine home with servants at your command. 
What more can mortals want.’’ 

Meusa looked at Edna and saw two little 
red spots glowing on her cheeks, but she 
answered in an indifferent tone of voice : 

“Yes, I have been told that many times, 
and have commenced to think perhaps I am 
one of fortune’s favorites. But whether I 
am grateful for that favoritism I am not 
quite sure.” 

“I thought I would find it so,” Edna 
said to herself, and that little discovery 
made her quite happy, and she liked Meusa 
all the better. 

“You see,” she said aloud, “the world 
judges by outward appearances, and I, only 
knowing you for so short a time, do the 
same. But of course you are happy, for 
such a combination of blessings as you 
possess can bring nothing but happiness.” 

“I don’t know,” Meusa persisted, “ Paul 
treats me often as he would a child, and I 
tell you frankly I don’t like it. It makes 


60 


me feel very small and unhappy at times, 
and having been married yourself you must 
know that married life is not always a bed 
of roses. Was yours? she innocently in- 
quired. 

She saw a bright flush mount to Edna’s 
brow, and realizing what a personal ques- 
tion she had asked, quickly said, '‘Pardon 
me; I should not have asked that.” 

“Never mind,” replied Edna, “I don’t 
mind telling 3^ou that my life has been a 
very unhappy one. My married life was a 
wretched farce, and my widowhood has been 
a sad failure. I did not love my husband.” 

‘ ‘ Does the lack of love make all marriages 
wretched and a failure ? ’ ’ Meusa innocently 
inquired. 

‘ ‘ I cannot say , ’ ’ answered Edna ; ‘ ‘ but I 
do know it made my life a perfect torture. 
I always saw the word duty painted in big 
black letters before me, and I knew that 
meant for me misery, anguish and despair. 
My husband, poor fellow, loved me, and 
clung to me like a little child, and I hated 
his every caress. My heart would be filled 


61 


with loathing and despair while my face was 
wreathed in smiles, for 3^ou know duty 
brought and forced them there. I could 
not harden my heart sufficiently to tell him 
the truth, and I bore my misery in silence 
and alone. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think I could do that,” Meusa 
cried; ” you w^ere very brave, much more so 
than I ever could be. But now you are free 
and can be happy.” 

“Did I not tell you,” answered Edna, 

‘ ‘ that my widowhood was a failure ? If you 
care to listen I will tell you my story. I 
like you, Eady Ravenwood, and I do hope 
you may reciprocate my feelings.” 

“Don’t call me Eady Ravenwood, call me 
Meusa,” her companion answered, “ then I 
can call you Edna. But before you tell 
your story let us pledge eternal friendship. 
I never met any one I liked as I do you, 
and I always longed for a friend of my own 
sex. You know I never have had any one 
but Paul, and in that line he is so unsatis- 
factory. Here,” she hurriedly said, “ is a 
ring Paul gave me on one of my birthdays. 


62 


Will you accept it as a reminder of my 
friendship?'’ 

Edna looked at her hand, then at Meusa, 
in perplexity. Taking the ring she stam- 
mered, “thank you, thank you.” She 
looked at her hand again, then at Meusa, 
then suddenly drawing a small gold ring 
from her finger, she said : 

^ ‘ This ring I value the most of anything 
on earth. You see there are two hearts 
linked together. The fire of love in those 
hearts is represented by the sparkling dia- 
monds embedded in them. You see the 
gem in one has fallen out. It is lost for- 
ever. I have not replaced it, I never can. 
Take it, wear it as a pledge of my friend- 
ship for you and yours. It was given me 
by” — in her heart she cried “Paul,” to 
Meusa — “a very dear friend.” 

She placed the ring on Meusa’ s finger, 
and Meusa, dike a pleased child, cried : 

“What a sweet fancy. Edna won’t 3^ou 
allow me to replace the gem ? It is a pity 
to have .such a beautiful ring marred. ’ ’ 

Edna looked up at her v»dth a startled 


63 


glance crying, “You don’t know what you 
say, child, you can never do that/* 

“Oh, yes I can,” Meusa cried, “Paul 
will help me. He will get the diamond for 
me. ’ ’ 

Edna was white to the lips. Every word 
Meusa had uttered cut her like a knife ; she 
knew of course she was simply speaking of 
the stone, yet it seemed to Edna something 
more. Could and would Meusa ever re- 
place the fire in that heart ? She fell into a 
painful reverie, and at last was aroused by 
Meusa saying in a rather pained voice : 

“Edna, I fear I have displeased you. 
You are so quiet and sad. Please tell me 
your story.” 

Edna looked at her wdth great sorrowful 
eyes, and in a sad voice commenced : 

“You called me brave. Wait until I 
have told you all, then I will hear what you 
think of me. I did not love my husband, 
neither did I love any one. One day I met 
a stranger, tall, dark and handsome. We 
were poor while he was rich. I met him 
often at an aunt’s of mine, and before I had 


64 


known him long I knew what love was and 
he had taught me. Then I contrasted my 
life to what it might have been, and I was 
even more wretched than before. One day he 
called at our home, bringing me a message 
from my aunt. He found me in tears ; my 
accounts were all tangled up; nothing would 
come out right. I was obliged to make 
one dollar do the duty of five, and I found 
I was in a hopeless muddle. He, like an 
old friend, tried to help me unravel my 
household tangle. He was so kind, so sym- 
pathetic, my heart yearned to throw its 
burden upon his strong shoulders. Little 
by little he prepared me for what was com- 
ing, and when he told me he loved me I 
was not startled. But then the thought of 
duty to my husband rose before me and I 
grew furious at myself, and the world, and 
lastly at him.'’ 

‘‘‘How dare you talk of love to me, I 
the wife of another !’ 

‘ ‘ He looked into my eyes and smilingly 
said : 

“ ‘ Because I know you love me.’ 


66 


^ ‘ Then grasping my hands ' he passion- 
ately cried : 

“ ‘ Listen to me. I am free, I am rich, I 
love you, and I know you love me. You 
are bound to another but I will wait for 
you. Tell me that you do love me, and I 
will never speak of love to you again as 
long as you are not free. ^ 

‘ ‘ He gathered me in his arms and I 
sobbed out my misery and wretchedness. 
Kissing me, he said : 

“ ‘ Now I am satisfied. You will love me, 
and I can wait years if necessary until you 
are free. I will not do or talk again as I 
have to-day. Come,’ he softly said, ‘ I will 
kiss your tears away and after that I am 
your friend only. ’ 

‘ ‘ He did as he said, kissed my tears away, 
then coolly sat me down on the chair oppo- 
site, took the account book up and com- 
menced to add up m}^ scraggy figures, as if 
no such thing as love existed. But I could 
not put it from me. It opened to me visions 
of a new and happy life, and my present 
lot seemed tenfold harder to bear. But he 


66 


was true to his word. He met me as a 
friend, nothing more. Womanlike, I began 
to think he did not love me, and of course 
grew wretched in the thought. 

^ ‘ One day things were worse than usual ; 
I was in despair. In the midst of it he came. 
I could see love in his eyes, but never a 
word or action from him to assure me of it. 
I knew he had no right to say, nor I to 
listen to him, ‘ I love you.’ 

‘ ' He inquired in a gentle voice why I was 
so silent, and I answered by bursting into 
tears. He stood irresolute, looked around 
as if to find some means of escape, then in 
an instant his whole demeanor changed. 
He came toward me, and in a moment I was 
in his arms and he was raining passionate 
kisses on my face. I then and there told him 
how wretched, how unendurable my life 
was, and how I longed to be free to love 
him and allow him to make me happy. 

‘ ‘ Don’t blame him, Meusa, I was the weak 
one; I tempted him. But my misery made 
me weak. Had I been a strong woman I 
would not have done as I did. But my 


6 ? 


wretched life had made me pitifully weak 
and helpless, and I could not help confiding 
in him, when I knew he loved me, and he 
of course was but a man, not an angel. He 
listened to me in silence. When I had 
sobbed myself quiet, he said : 

“ ' I see no way out of this but for you to tell 
your husband the truth and abide the result. ’ ’ 

“I looked at him in horror and gasped, 

‘ Why he loves me.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ The more reason why he should give 
you up. If he truly loves you, he will want 
to see you happy. Take my advice and try 
it, ’ he gently said. 

‘But suppose he does give me up,’ I 
faltered, ‘ what then ?’ 

“‘You will be mine,’ he quickly an- 
swered. ‘ I will look after you. Take time 
to think it over and let me know your deci- 
sion, ’ and he took his hat and left me without 
another word. That night when my hus- 
band came home he was very gentle and 
kind, and in the condition my mind was I 
could not endure it. I fell at his feet and 
confessed all.’’ 


68 


What did he do?’’ gasped Meusa. 

'‘He did nothing,” Edna replied, “but 
look at me and say : 

“ ‘I loved you so, I loved you so.’ Then 
he turned from me, saying, ‘don’t worry, 
child ; it will all come right.’ 

“He never was the same again. I wrote 
a letter to the man I loved, telling him all. 
Oh ! the agony of those days. My patient, 
gentle husband’s face was always a reminder 
of what I had done, yet I was glad I did it. 

“One day he came home earlier than 
usual, and complained of being tired. I 
fixed the couch with the softest pillows, and 
he laid down to sleep. When I went to tell 
him our simple tea was ready I could not 
wake him. He was dead. I had killed him. 
Broken his faithful loving heart by confess- 
ing the truth. 

‘ ‘ I w^as a widow some time before I wrote 
to my love. I received an answer telling me 
he was coming to see me. When he came I 
forgot my remorse, my regrets, and remem- 
bered only that I was free and my love was 
with me. We were happy, very happy. 


69 


He could not marry me lest the world might 
talk. I must wait the proper time, in the 
eyes of the world, to be made his wife. I 
did not care. I loved him, trusted him, and 
was supremely happy. 

' ‘ One day he came and told me he must 
leave me for a time, and when he returned 
we would never part again. 

‘ ‘ One bright spring day I sat at my win- 
dow sewing on a piece of fancy work for my 
wedding outfit, and humming a song that 
sprang from my heart, because it was glad. 
I received a letter that made life a blank 
for me. It was from my love, and told 
me— 

' ‘ What ! ^ ’ exclaimed Meusa, springing up 
from her chair. 

“It told me,” quietly answered Edna, 

‘ ‘ he had deserted me. That he was about 
to wed another. ’ ' 

“ The wretch,” cried Meusa, her eyes 
flashing the scorn and indignation she felt. 

“What a heartless brute he must have 
been, and how you must have suffered.” 

“Yes,” wearily answered Edna; “I did 


70 


suffer and I still do, but the first blow is 
over. I am now better able to bear it.’' 

‘ ‘ Do you not long for vengeance ? ’ ’ Meusa 
cried. ‘ ‘ Were I in your place, I would never 
rest until I had made him suffer every heart- 
ache he caused me to suffer. I would give 
him blow for blow. ’ ’ 

‘‘Ido not hate him, child, ’ ’ Edna answered, 
a wan smile playing about her mouth at 
Meusa’ s vehemence. ‘ ‘ I love him, and long 
only for some part in his life, even that of 
a servant. I only live for the time to come 
that I can win him back without causing 
the innocent to suffer as I once did.” 

‘ ‘ Do you mind telling me what you know 
of his wife ? ’ ’ Meusa asked. 

‘‘I have heard,” Edna gravely answered, 
‘ ‘ that she is young, beautiful, fair and good, 
and I would rather die than do anything to 
injure her. But come, ’ ’ she continued, ‘ ‘ let 
us talk of something else, or still better, you 
sing to me. I believe I am tired.” 

‘‘Forgive me,” impulsively cried Meusa. 
‘‘I know you must suffer. You say you 
would not injure his wife. Perhaps vshe does 


71 


not love him. Find out if possible, and if 
she doesn’t I will help you to win him back. 
I know he has wronged you, outraged your 
womanhood, yet you love him. You are one 
in a thousand and I will help you. You may 
be happy yet.” 

Edna was silently weeping. Meusa seeing 
her bowed head and shaking figure softly 
stole from the room. 


DRKAM SIXTH. 


Forbidden Love, 

Paul Ravenwood went along all uncon- 
scious of the future fate had in store for 
him. He was happy with his books and 
pets, and well knew Meusa could fill her 
days independent of him, and not miss him. 
He was too matter of fact to think she loved 
him. He had written and told her she was 
to be his bride, and it never occurred to her 
to say anything to the contrary. 

She looked upon him as her protector and 
only friend, and she w^as always accustomed 
to allow him to have his own way. If she 
did fight for her rights it always ended in 
her defeat. 

Paul was contented to know she belonged 
to him, even though she did not love him, 
for if she had, in time it would have bored 
him. He hugged the thought that she 
loved no one else. He was jealous only of 
possessing and ruling her, not of loving her 
72 


73 


and being loved. The thought of her loving 
Ormond did not enter his mind. 

Grand passions wearied him. That was 
why Edna lost him. She allowed him to 
see and know the depth of her love, when 
he would have preferred to explore her heart 
at his leisure and find it out little by little 
for himself. He truly loved her for a time, 
but too much love wearied him. He wanted 
a loving woman and a comrade in one. 

But Edna had lived such a wretched life 
that all of her pent-up love was showered 
upon him, and he in time grew weary and 
disappointed in his choice. Had he the 
patience to have waited he would have 
found what he expected, a true loving com- 
rade and an intellectual helpmate. 

He was startled and surprised to hear 
from her after his marriage, and have her 
tell him she was coming to see him. He 
was too much engaged at the time upon a 
new theory to combat her will, and she came, 
and the tragedy of his life began. 

He saw her, and after their first interview 
thought there would be no more trouble. 


74 


Men should learn that the quieter an out- 
raged woman is the more terrible will be the 
day of reckoning when it comes. 

There are women in the world who have 
suffered such agony of mind and soul that 
after the first few awful struggles are over 
their misery grows, settles, and takes root 
way down out of sight, and in time they 
become contented in the thought that they 
are wretched. That is the woman to fear, 
not pity. 

Meusa went to the drawing-room to devote 
two of her morning hours to practicing her 
music. There she found Ormond and Edna. 
Immediately on her entering Edna called : 

Meusa, come here. Oh, you needn’t 
be surprised,” addressing Ormond, ” we are 
the best of friends. I call her Meusa and 
she honors me by calling me Edna.” 

‘'I think,” slowly replied Ormond, ‘'I 
have been somewhat slighted. Eady Raven- 
wood has promised to be a sister to me, yet 
she has not accorded me that sweet privilege. 
Won’t you intercede for me, Mrs. Archi- 
bald?” 


75 


Certainl}^,” answered the lady. *‘He 
may call you Meusa, mayn’t he, dear? You 
know 3^ou are a sort of relation after all.” 

Meusa looked at him in a helpless way, 
and found herself almost stammering, “Yes, 
if he so wishes. ’ ’ 

“It will make me very happ3% indeed,” 
almost reverently, he replied. ‘ ‘ But there 
is one condition. You must call me Or- 
mond?” 

A glad light leaped to Meusa’ s eyes, and 
Edna quick to read, saw it, and the truth 
flashed upon her, and in her heart she cried : 

“Oh, God! that I read aright. If so 
there may be happiness for us yet, but not 
at any sacrifice. No,” she murmured, 
“none this time, none this time.” 

But she gathered herself together and 
gayly cried : 

“We were discussing Paul, and sa^dng 
how thoroughly American he is. He was 
born in this country, but has the misfortune 
of being the only son of an English Milord, 
yet he would rather be plain Mr. But the 
miners and his friends will not forget he 


7ft 


is a lord, and the title still clings to him. 
Come,” she said, rising, ” let us go down 
to the lake. It is very warm here.” 

On their way they saw Paul enter Para- 
dise, and Meusa shuddered and cried : 

‘ ‘ That dreadful snake. I wish it would 
die.” 

” What snake? ” inquired Edna. 

” One he bought and keeps in Paradise. 
Haven’t you heard of it or seen it?” in- 
quired Meusa. 

”No,” slowly answered Edna; “I am 
sorry. I fear that means woe to some Eve. 
I think I will go down and see it if you 
don’t mind,” and she smiled, but her lips 
quivered as she left them. 

Mind, of course the}^ did not mind being 
left alone. They reached the lake in silence, 
both too happy to talk. Meusa turned, and 
Ormond could see the love shining in her 
eyes as, like an impulsive child, she cried : 

”Oh, I am so happy ! ” 

Then she realized what she had said, and 
the hot blood mounted to her face making 
it a vivid scarlet. 


77 


Ormond took one step toward her then 
stopped, for he knew he must fight his love 
for this woman, who was the wife of his 
relative and friend. Yet how could he, if 
she, in an unguarded moment had shown 
her love for him. For in that one exclama- 
tion she told him all. 

He looked around in a helpless, irresolute 
way ; Meusa was gathering some wild 
flowers that grew on the edge of the lake. 
She reached for one that grew far out, and, 
losing her footing, fell with a heavy splash 
into the water. 

Quick as a flash Ormond followed her, to 
find she did not come up. Out in the center 
he saw the water agitated, then her golden 
head appeared, and suddenly from out of 
the water a white hand threw him a kiss. 

The lake was a small artificial one, but 
very deep. Ormond swam to her and found 
her enjoying herself as if she were a mer" 
maid. She was a fine swimmer; her hair 
had become unfastened and floated in a 
golden cloud about her. When he recovered 
his breath he cried : 


78 


For shame. I believe you did it inten- 
tionally, meaning to frighten me.” 

' ‘ No, no, ’ ’ she panted ; ‘ ' but after it was 
done, I might as well enjoy myself, and I 
do so love to swim. What on earth would 
Paul say if he saw us swimming in our 
street clothes, like two lunatics? Wouldn’t 
I like to see his face? He would think I 
was a child, and send me supperless to 
bed.” 

She sprang with a bound to the bank and 
disappeared behind the trees. 

Ormond followed her leisurely. He went 
to his room to change his clothes and dream 
of the woman he loved. An intense long- 
ing took possession of him to have her at 
any cost. How could he live without her? 
Yet how could he betray Paul, his relative 
and almost only friend? 

In the meantime, Edna made her way to 
Paradise where she had seen Paul enter. 
She slowly mounted the steps and looked 
about her. She thought she had in truth 
entered Paradise ; everything was so beauti- 
ful, and to her the most divine thought of 


79 


all was that Paul was there — the man who 
had made her suffer, yet still she loved him 
with an undying devotion. He was sitting 
beside his favorite, reading. He did not 
hear her approaching until she was by his 
side and saying : 

“I hope you will pardon this intrusion, 
but Meusa told me of your favorite here and 
I longed to see it. I saw you enter and fol- 
lowed you.” 

He looked at her in mingled admiration 
and amazement. How different she was 
from his wife, whom he could not coax 
there to see his favorite, and here was Edna 
asking and longing to see it. His delight 
knew no bounds when, stepping to the case, 
she cried : 

Oh, Paul ! how beautiful. When I see 
a beautiful snake I always feel like stroking 
it, yet I fear them.” 

Paul laid aside his book and was at her side 
in an instant. He told her of the trouble and 
expense he was put to to get the snake, and 
how he thought it was a grand work of na- 
ture, what new ideas it gave him, and how 


80 


much enjoyment he gained by having it 
there. 

Edna saw her advantage, and quickly fol- 
lowed it up by sw^eetly saying : 

‘‘Do tell me all about it,” and then for 
two hours she very patiently listened to his 
melodious voice telling her his new theories 
and pet hobbies. Sometimes he would stop 
in the midst of a sentence and exclaim, more 
to himself than to her ! 

‘ ‘ This is indeed a pleasure ! ’ ’ 

After a time he looked at his watch and 
exclaimed : 

‘‘I declare, little girl, you have positively 
given me a treat. I haven’t had such a 
pleasant two hours since — ’ ’ and he stopped 
in embarrassment. 

“Finish it,” Edna said, calmly. “Since 
you last talked with me? ” 

“Well, yes,” he answered; “and I be- 
lieve I feel better than I have since that time. 
Now Edna, pardon me for speaking so,” he 
earnestly said, ‘ ‘ but I know we can be good 
friends and comrades even in spite of the 
past. Don’t you think so? ” 


81 


' ' I hope so, ’ ’ she replied, without a quiver 
of her lips, yet all the time longing to throw 
herself at his feet and tell him of her heart 
hunger and wretchedness. Yet she sat out- 
wardly calm, while her heart was so filled 
with love it seemed to her it must break. ^ 
Paul looked at her and abruptly said : 
“Edna, how old are you?“ 

‘ ' What a bad memory you have, ’ ’ she an- 
swered, “ I was twenty-seven my last birth- 
day. Why do you ask ? ’ ' 

“ Because, “ he gravely answered, I see a 
number of almost invisible wrinkles on your 
smooth baby face, and I could not help won- 
dering what had brought them there.’' 

' ' Do you want me to tell you ? ’ ’ 

But before he had time to answer, she con- 
tinued in a light tone she far from felt. 

“After I received your letter and heard of 
your marriage, I was foolish enough to worry. 
Each wrinkle on my face tells of many 
heartaches I endured. But I found that 
if I did not stop I would soon be a verit- 
able witch, as far as looks were concerned, 
and of course I could not allow that. So I 


82 


immediately stopped them by trying to for- 
get all about you and filling my life with 
new surroundings, new occupations. I took 
to writing. I found it a safe friend and a 
silent one. I love my pen, and I grow ani- 
mated at the sight of a writing pad.’’ 

^ ‘ If all the women had your will power and 
control, what a world this would be ! ” cried 
Paul in delight. 

“Yes, what a world!” reiterated Edna. 

‘ ‘ Where would be the sweet calms, the sunset 
hours, the hundreds of other things that go 
to make life enjoyable. All would be storm 
and tempest, or a blinding sun that would 
scorch and burn out our existence. But 
your wife will be waiting for me. By the 
way,” she quietly added, “we have become 
great friends, and I tell you truly I would 
do anything to make her happy. Good-b 3 ^e, 
I am going to the drawing-room to get a cup 
of tea,” and she left him standing staring at 
space. 

‘ ‘ Jove 1 ” he mentally exclaimed, ‘ ‘ I won- 
der if I have made a mistake. I am truly 
glad they are friends, for now I can propose 


83 


to Edna what I feared to before. I want her 
to remain here as a companion to Meusa, 
and help her, for she is far the stronger of 
the two.” 

He would not admit he wanted her to re- 
main for his benefit, but he flattered himself 
he was easing his conscience. For if she 
remained he could bestow upon her all the 
comforts and luxuries that she would have 
enjoyed as his wife, and then in turn he 
could give Meusa a congenial companion. 

He never stopped to think what mischief 
he was piling up for himself. Wife and 
former mistress in the same house, and they 
the best of friends. 

If ever Meusa should find out the truth, 
he flattered himself he could tell her a lie, 
and she would believe him in preference to 
the truth from other lips. 

After a good bath and rubbing by Zura, 
Meusa felt all aglow with life and health. 
She turned to the little Indian saying, 
“Zura, what are you thinking of?” 

Zura caught her hand, crying, ‘ ‘ Me love 
you much. Me die for you. Me go to 


84 


happy hunting ground. Zura only a poor 
little Indian girl, but love white lily well. 
Me know what love is, me love you.'’ 

“Ah, Zura,” her mistress answered, 
* ‘ love does not always bring peace and hap- 
piness. It more frequently brings sorrow 
and pain. No, not that gown,” as Zura 
brought a beautiful pink, “bring me one all 
soft and white, I feel rather angelical just 
now,” and after the robe was donned, she 
truly looked it. 

When she went to the drawing-room, she 
found Ormond sitting by the window with 
his head thrown back, fast asleep. A feel- 
ing came over her to tell him of her love 
while he slept. 

She was always guided by impulse, never 
by reason, and now she softly glided to his 
side, knelt by his chair, and poured out the 
love of her heart to him. Then she rose and 
printed a zephyr-like kiss upon his curls, 
only to find herself clasped in his strong 
arms and to hear the voice she loved best 
saying : 

“Don’t struggle, my darling, I have you 


85 


now and I mean to hold you until I tell you 
how much I love you and how dear you are 
to me. I know you love me, for it was 
3^our love that woke me. I dreamed you 
knelt by my side and told me of your love. 
I felt you near. I opened my eyes to clasp 
you in my arms. Oh, Meusa ! I know you 
love me and I you ; yet you belong to an- 
other and he is my friend. But what is 
friendship, the world, everything, to a 
dreary, loveless life. That is what mine 
will be without you. Meusa, tell me that 
you love me ; let me hear it from your own 
sweet lips. ’ ’ 

She was carried away by the force of his 
love, and did not realize what she was doing. 
She nestled closer in his arms, laid her head 
upon his breast and there told him how 
she would live and love him alone, and 
always. 

He pressed his hot dry lips to hers, she 
returning him kiss for kiss. They were lost 
to every thing but their love. They did 
not see the curtains slowly part and Edna 
enter. She looked around. They saw her 


86 


too late; Meusa was clasped in his arms, 
her face flushed with his burning kisses. 

Edna, as if reading their thoughts, slowly 
went to where they sat, and stood still be- 
fore them. 

Ormond was the first to break the painful 
silence. 

“Mrs. Archibald, “ he quickly said, with 
a determined look in his eyes, ‘ ‘ what you 
have witnessed was not intended for you 
to see. But I scorn to act a lie, to tell one. 
I love Meusa, she loves me. Will you be 
our friend or betray us? “ 

Meusa looked with startled, frightened 
eyes at Ormond as he released her from his 
arms. She did not move, but her eyes fol- 
lowed Edna as she slowly paced the room. 

Edna was grasping the situation. If she 
befriended Meusa, would she be betraying 
Paul? 

Then she thought of the bright golden 
days of her own love, and a longing swelled 
in her heart to help them to a better, brighter 
life than she had known. She also knew 
Paul could be happy without Meusa or her 


87 

love, and had that day taught her he could 
be happy with her. 

What was the happiness of four lives? 
Was it not of more importance than the word 
the world calls honor, but which often, in 
the sight of heaven, is dishonor ? She turned 
to Ormond and Meusa, saying : 

I am about to do what the world would 
condemn by being your friend. I will be 
true to you in all things. I have discovered 
your secret, but I have suspected it. I will 
help you carry it to the end, which I hope 
will be a bright and happy one.’' 

Ormond grasped her hand and hoarsely 
murmured : 

“I thank you, Mrs. Archibald, in the 
name of Meusa and myself. ’ ’ 

Then turning to where Meusa had been 
standing, he found she had noiselessly left 
the room. 


DRKAM SEVENTH. 


The Breach Widens. 

Meusa sent word by Zura that she was 
suffering from a bad headache and would not 
come down to dinner. 

Immediately Paul ordered her dinner sent 
to her, and inquired of Edna if she would 
not go to her room and spend an hour with 
her : 

'‘For,’' he continued, “I am in the midst 
of a new theory, and feel confident I can 
succeed in working it out to great advantage; 
so I cannot go myself to cheer her up. I 
know her headaches are only little fits of the 
blues. She don’t really know what a head- 
ache is. ’ ’ 

Ormond listened in silence. When Edna 
rose from dinner to go to Meusa, Ormond 
opened the door for her and whispered : 
‘ ‘ Shall I come? Dare I ?” 

Edna answered, ‘ ‘ No ; wait. ’ ’ She found 
Meusa looking anything but ill. Her face 
88 


89 


was flushed, and there was a strange happy 
light in her eyes that Edna had never seen 
there before. 

She greeted Edna’s entrance by exclaim- 
ing: 

“Oh, Edna, please don’t say I am wicked. 
I could not help it. I love him so. Eife 
seems to me so bright and fair now. Paul 
never talked to me as Ormond did. I don’t 
believe he could. ’ ’ 

Then across Edna’s mind floated visions 
of the past, when Paul had spoken such lov- 
ing, passionate words to her, that it now 
made her face burn to think of them. Now 
he was a barrier to his own wife’s happiness, 
just as another was to his. 

“Don’t get excited, Meusa dear. I shall 
not call you hard names or think unkind 
thoughts of you. You are only a beautiful 
woman that God made to love and be loved. 
I came to have a quiet chat with you. We 
may yet find a way out of this tangle that 
will mean happiness for you.’’ 

Now let me ask you a few questions, and 
remember I want truthful answers : 


90 


* ‘ Do you truly love Mr. Radnor ? Are you 
sure?’’ 

‘‘Just as sure as I am that I live,” Meusa 
answered passionately. 

“Are you prepared to make any sacrifice 
that may be demanded of you?” Edna con- 
tinued. 

“I think I could,” Meusa hesitatingly 
answered. “I could brave much for him. 
Yes,” she continued, brightening, “I could 
go to Paul and ask him to give me up. 
Wouldn’t that be all?” 

‘ ‘ Most certainly not, ’ ’ cried Edna. ‘ ‘ You 
must not do that, for you would ruin every- 
thing. ’ ’ 

“What else can I do?” plaintively in- 
quired Meusa. ‘ ‘ I can never be happy with- 
out Ormond, and yet how can I be happy 
with him unless I tell Paul?” 

Edna smiled. This queenly - looking 
woman was such a child at heart. 

“Now listen, to me,” she said; “you 
might — mind I say might — love Ormond and 
be happy and Paul never know of it. He 
would go on in blissful ignorance of it and be 


91 


happy, just as he is now, with his books and 
theories. ’ ^ 

There was a look of horror on Meusa’s 
face as she cried : 

“Oh, Edna! how can you. That would 
be wicked. That would be betraying Paul 
shamefully. I could never divide my affec- 
tions between two men. I must belong to 
one, and him alone. I could never do that. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I only said you could. I did not say you 
should,” slowly answered Edna. “I mean 
to try to help you, but have you stopped to 
think what Ormond must suffer if he truly 
loves you ?’ ’ 

“But,” persisted Meusa, “think of me. 
I don’t see that I should sacrifice everything 
and he nothing, do you ?’ ’ 

“No, but that seems to be the lot of 
woman. Sacrifice all, give all, and quite 
often receive nothing but heartaches in re- 
turn. But I don’t mean that shall be your 
fate,” she cried, brightening; “I shall try 
to aid you to be truly happy, and that with 
a clear conscience. If Paul came to you and 
told you he did not love you, but for the 


92 


sake of his name the world must be de- 
ceived, what would you do?’^ 

“Do?^* joyfully answered Meusa, '‘I 
would give him back his freedom and make 
him happy. Then fly to my love and be at 
rest.'’ 

‘‘But you don’t understand, Meusa. You 
would not be free in the eyes of the world, 
or God either. ’ ' 

“Oh, yes I would. If God is the all-wise 
One they say He is. He knows there has been 
a sinful mistake made, and when He knows 
I love Ormond, not Paul, He will free me, 
and that freedom is enough for me. I could 
be happy with a clear conscience and a warm 
soul. Oh, Edna," she continued, “don’t 
you think Paul can be made to see the truth ? 
I am nothing more to him than a plaything, 
a toy. He can easily give me up. ’ ’ 

“Yes," dreamily answered Edna, “but 
the point is, will he. That remains to be 
seen. That is what we must wait and work 
for. Now, Meusa, you must try and help me. 
Are 3^011 willing to work and wait very 
patiently, if it needs be?" 


93 


“Yes, oh yes,” eagerly replied Meusa 
Then a smile curved her sweet lips as she 
cried, ‘ ‘ Here am I trying to get my husband 
to tell me he does not love me. To make 
him give me up, while I dare say there are 
women who languish for that very love that I 
am so anxious to throw away. There must 
be some one in the world who could love him 
and be loved by him.” 

Edna turned her head so Meusa could not 
see the pitiful quivering of her mouth and 
the pallor of her face. When she had con- 
trolled herself she said : 

‘ ‘ Then it is settled. But in the meantime, 
what of Ormond ? He asked me to-night 
could he come to see you. I knew it was safe 
as far as Paul was concerned, but I was not 
sure of you and I answered ‘No.* Now, 
Meusa, look at me and tell me. Can you 
trust yourself to see him, knowing how much 
he loves you and you him? He will be 
wretched away from you, but you must not 
see him unless you are sure of yourself. * * 

‘ ‘ I am sure of nothing, ’ * Meusa answered, 
“but that I love him, and I forget all when 


94 


I am with him but that love. Oh, Edna,'* 
she pleaded, ‘ ‘ don’ t keep him away. I cannot 
bear that ; I must see himo I will try, oh 
so hard, to remember what you have said, 
only don’t keep him away from me. I must 
see him and love him a little, just a very 
little,” she murmured softly. 

‘‘Have your own way,” replied Edna; 
‘ ‘ it may be the best in the end. But re- 
member I have warned you, and I say again 
watch yourself, be firm, and if you succeed 
I can see happiness looming for you, not a 
great distance off. Now good-night, darling ; 
go to bed and dream not of misery and de- 
spair, but happiness, heaven and the white 
angles of peace and love. ’ ’ Edna kissed her 
reverently, almost motherly, and left the 
room. 

‘ ‘ What makes me love the girl so ! ” she 
cried, as she gained her room. “I am a 
child as far as appearances go compared to 
her, yet I am the strong one and she nothing 
more than a child at heart. I should hate, 
despise her, for she holds that which I would 
die to have. Yet, poor child, it is no fault 


95 


of hers. I will free her,’* she vehemently 
cried, ‘‘and 3"et bring happiness to us all. 
Oh, Paul ! ” burying her face in her hands, 

‘ ‘ I want your love ; if only a morsel of it I 
would be content.” 

The next morning Paul sent for Edna 
and laid his proposition before her. She 
was surprised and startled, 3^et she showed 
neither. When he had finished she quietly 
said : 

“Tell me truly, Paul, why do you make 
me this offer ? ’ ’ 

He looked at her, and told the lie without 
a tremor. ‘‘ It is only on Meusa’s account. 
I know she likes you and would be wretched 
without you. I have asked you simply for 
her sake.” 

Edna looked him full in the eyes, as she 
answered : 

‘‘I will accept for her sake. But if I 
thought you were trying to make amends 
for the past, I would rather die than do so. 
Your money or position is nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing, to me now. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Don’t think of such a thing, ’ ’ he lightly 


96 


answered. Yet if Edna had been a close 
observer she might have detected a faint 
flush on his brow. We settled that long 
ago. Eet bygones be bygones, and don’t 
forget we are still friends and comrades. ’ ’ 

She bowed and quickly left the room, for 
she was fast losing her self-control, and in 
the bitterness of her heart she cried aloud, 
when she gained her room : 

‘ ' Dear God, give him back to me or teach 
me how to forget ! ’ ’ 

She then locked her door, took up her 
pen and wrote to forget her pain. When 
the lunch bell rang she descended the stairs 
like a new creature. 

' ' Where in the world have you been hid- 
ing?” cried Meusa; have hunted every- 
where for you. Paul dashed off awhile ago 
with a look on his face I never saw before, 
and I learned he was going for a long ride. 
Ormond has gone too, and I don’t know 
where ; I believe it is a conspiracy against 
me,” she cried, like a petulant child. 

‘ ‘ I have been in my room and in close 
communion with my love,” Edna answered. 


97 


** Whatever do you mean ! ” cried Meusa, 
with wide open eyes. 

Edna smiled as she said, Well, in plain 
words, I have been writing.’' 

''But where was your love? ” 

" My love,” Edna answered, ''is my pen 
and paper, and I find sweet comfort in 
them.” 

''Well!” Meusa exclaimed; "I think 
you an enigma. I really thought you had 
found your lost love and were happy.” 

''I have found him,” solemnly answered 
Edna, ' ' but he is farther away than ever. ’ ’ 

''Do tell me all about it,” eagerly cried 
Meusa. 

''Not now ; some time I may,” Edna an- 
swered, rising to go. '' If you are not care- 
ful, you will be the cause of my committing 
murder,” she ga 3 dy cried. 

' ' Good gracious 1 ’ ’ cried Meusa, spring- 
ing to her feet. ' ' What do you mean ? ’ ’ 

" I left the heroine of my new novel lying 
in a dead faint two weeks before I came 
here, and I have not been able, as yet, to 
revive her, owing to your monopolizing all 


my time. Think of the fearful burden on 
my conscience if I am not soon able to do 
so/' Edna continued, not noticing the in- 
terruption. 

Meusa dropped in a heap on the floor, 
and the room rang with her sweet laughter. 
In the midst of their mirth Ormond entered. 
This was their first meeting since their 
mutual confessions of love in the drawing- 
room. Meusa looked up in embarrassment, 
but she saw love beaming from his e^' es and 
grew herself at once. After lunch Edna 
proposed a stroll. They went to the lake 
and there she declared she was tired and sat 
down, as she said, to rest and think. The 
lovers strolled on and were soon lost to 
sight. Fall was fast approaching and all 
about lay scattered dying leaves. 

“Will that be the fate of our hopes, dar- 
ling, ’ ' Ormond murmured. 

“No, no!" cried Meusa; “I could not 
bear it. Indeed I could not. Since I lost 
father and mother I have not known what 
true love was. Paul has been generous and 
kind, but he never loved me. Oh, Ormond, ' ' 


99 


she cried, ‘ ‘ I am almost ashamed to tell 
you how much I do love you.’ ■ 

‘‘You make me the happiest of men,” he 
quickly cried ; ‘ ‘ I could talk to you for 
hours and not be able to tell you of half my 
love, my bright beautiful darling. The first 
time I saw you I knew you were my mate. 
You also recognized the truth. I read it in 
your face. I struggled against it, but I was 
too weak, too human. It would have been 
heroic for me to have left at once and tried 
to forget you, but I could not; I wanted 
you for my own, to love and hold until I 
died. If God intended you for me, why 
should I cast you away, simply because the 
world has placed barriers in my way. No, 
Meusa, I cannot, I will not.” Then he 
gathered her to him and kissed her blush- 
ing face. 

‘ ‘ Ormond, ’ ’ faintly asked Meusa, ‘ ‘ do 
you think it very wrong for us to love one 
another?” 

‘ ‘ I can only let your own ideas of right 
and wrong decide that question for you,” 
he gravely said. 


100 


“ But/' she pleaded, “God put that love 
in our hearts, then how can I help loving 
you, and if He placed it there how can it be 
wrong?" 

Ormond did not answer her, and she con- 
tinued : 

“We have not wronged Paul. I have 
tried hard," she wistfully said, “to be the 
same to him." 

He clasped her closer to him with a strange 
look of pain on his face and said : 

“No, I have not wronged him in deed, 
that I can safely say. ' ' But to himself he 
murmured, ‘ ‘ In thought, yes. That is 
almost as bad. I mean to be guided by my 
natural intuition. Tove tells me, and I feel, 
that I will triumph in the end. So don’t 
worry or think of it," he said, kissing her 
lips. “You can trust me just as long as 
you are strong and trust yourself. When 
you can no longer do that, then I warn you 
beware of me. Remember, I love you with 
a mad, passionate love that must win or 
die." 

“ Meusa," Edna called, “where in the 


101 


world are you? How long you have been. 
I have planned out my next three chapters 
in your absence. I began to think you 
were lost, and I came to find you. And,’' 
she continued, ignoring their fiushed faces, 
‘ ' I am sure it will storm. See how the sky 
is overcast, and the wind has risen and is 
tossing the poor dead leaves about without 
mercy.” 

Then she thought of Paul out in the storm 
among the mountains. They quickly walked 
to the house and the storm soon broke in all 
its fury. The thunder rolled and echoed 
among the rocks in deafening roars. The 
lightning lit up the darkened heavens, play- 
ing hide-and-seek among the inky clouds. 
Edna sat in one corner, a frightened heap, 
all the time thinking of Paul alone in the 
mountains. 

Dinner was served, yet he had not come. 
Meusa was too happy with Ormond to think 
of anything but that happiness. But after 
a time she noticed Edna and cried : 

‘ ‘ How quiet you are, you look worried, 
what is the matter?” 


102 


“Nothing,’' replied Edna, “only I have 
been thinking how dreadful it must be to 
be exposed to the fury of such a storm. ’ ’ 

“Why, I declare,’’ cried Meusa; “I am 
so thoughtless. Paul is somewhere, but I 
know he will stop in some miner’s cabin 
and wait until it is over,’’ and she dismissed 
him from her mind. 

Ormond entered with a letter in his hand. 
“What do 3^ou think,’’ he cried; “I have 
news from England ; a rich uncle of mine 
has died and left me all he possessed, which 
is a handsome estate and a large rent roll.’’ 

“And, of course,’’ smiled Edna, “the 
title is with the estate ?’’ 

“Yes,” he cried, “I am now Eord Or- 
mond Radnor. I knew there was such a 
relative of mine in England, but I did not 
dream I would be heir to all his worldly 
goods. ’ ’ 

“ What a lucky fellow you are,” warmly 
cried Edna ; “ I do indeed congratulate 

you.” 

But Meusa looked at him with frightened 
eyes and sobbed : 


103 


“Oh, Ormond! He had no business to 
die and leave you his miserable money. 
You won’t go away from me, will you?” 

“That is just it,’’ he slowly replied ; “I 
must leave you for a time, and at once. The 
business won’t wait. I think I shall go as 
soon as possible. The sooner I go the sooner 
I will return.’’ 

Meusa looked at him and threw herself on 
a couch, sobbing like a child. Ormond went 
to her, knelt down, and whispered words of 
comfort ill her ear. Edna quietly left them 
alone in their happiness and grief. She 
could not but think that fate played strange 
tricks sometimes. 

“Don’t cry, darling,’’ Ormond said, “I 
won’t be gone long. Perhaps when I return 
there will be a road to freedom for us. Then 
I can take you to England, to my home, as 
my wife, my heart’s idol.’’ 

‘ ‘ I cannot bear the thought of losing you 
even for a short time,’’ she sobbed. “Oh, 
please write and tell them you don’t w^ant 
their money and title ; that you want to stay 
with me.’’ 


104 


I cannot do that/’ he answered, a smile 
curving his lips. ' ‘ Listen to me. When the 
time comes that I can claim you as my wife 
I want all the luxuries and comforts that 
wealth can give to place at your feet.” 

”But,” sobbed persistent Meusa, with 
quivering lips, ' ' I know Paul will do some- 
thing terrible w^hile you are away. He may 
carry me off. ’ ’ 

'‘Never fear, he cried; “if he does, love 
will tell me where you are and I will rescue 
you.” 

“Well, if he don’t carry me off, I will be 
so miserable ; I am sure I will tell him every- 
thing,” she cried, putting her soft w^hite 
arms about his neck. ‘ ‘ Now say you won’t 
go, please.” 

“Meusa,” Ormond sternly said, “you 
must not do chat. It would be worse than 
madness. I shall not leave you until you 
promise me you won’t, and seal your promise 
with a kiss. ’ ’ 

“I will kiss you first,” she cried, drying 
her eyes on her handsome lace bertha; 
“then I will promise after.” 


105 


They forgot the coming parting in the 
knowledge that they were together. The 
clock in the hall chimed out the midnight 
hour. Meusa started up, crying : 

‘'So late? What if Paul had found us 
here?” She kissed him and hurriedly left 
the room. 

Ormond sat where she left him in blissful 
reverie. The curtains parted, a small dark 
figure stole into the room, and he recognized 
Edna. He was about to speak to her when 
he heard her murmur : 

“Oh Paul, Paul, what has happened to 
you ? Are you safe, or lying on the moun- 
tain path bruised, and perhaps dead?” Then 
she crouched down by the window and re- 
mained silent. 

Ormond did not speak to her, for he real- 
ized if there was a secret he was not to know 
it, and he noiselessly left the room; 

One o’clock struck. Still she silently sat 
by the wdndow, waiting apparently for some 
one. 

Two o’clock chimed forth, and it seemed 
to her she must fly away. Then her strained 


106 


ears caught the clatter oi a horse's hoofs. 
She listened as it came nearer. 

When the sound came closer she knew it 
was Paul, and arising, looked out into the 
night. The storm had spent its fury. The 
wind had died away, leaving the earth damp 
and cold. The moon was slowly coming up, 
casting her pale silvery light around. She 
saw Paul dismount, and before he had time 
to ring, she opened the door for him. 

He stood still in amazement at the sight. 
There she stood, her face all white and 
drawn, and her hair looking inky black in 
contrast. 

'‘Why Edna, my dear," he involuntarily 
cried ; why are you up this time of 
night?" 

" Meusa thought 3^ou would not be home, 
so she bade George lock the house and not 
wait for you. I rather expected you, and I 
thought you might be wet and cold, and it 
would be unpleasant for you to have to ring 
the servants up. So I remained in the 
drawing-room and watched for you." 

He looked at her and exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Why 


107 


little girl, you have been crying ; what is the 
matter?’^ 

“The storm made me nervous, that is 
all,” she wearily answered; “don’t wait, 
Paul, ’ ’ she cried, and in spite of herself, a 
tenderness crept into her voice. “Your 
clothing is wet. Go change it at once. I 
fear you may take cold. Good-night,” she 
softly said, and vanished up the stairs. 

“Good-night, little woman,” he called, 
“and thank you.” 

When the patter of her slippered feet had 
died away he muttered : 

“I wonder if I made a mistake after all. 
I wonder if I did ! ’ ’ 


DREAM EIGHTH. 

An Unexpected Return, 

‘^Edna, let me in,” Meusa called; 
want to talk with you.” Then she heard 
some one slowly cross the room to the door, 
turn the key, and there stood Edna with her 
face pale and drawn, her eyes and nose red 
from weeping. 

‘‘What is the matter?” Meusa cried, 
in a sweet sympathetic voice. ” You have 
been crying. Don’ t deny it. ” 

”Yes, Meusa,” Edna tremulously an- 
swered ; I have been crying, and I am oh, 
so wretched. I came to my room imme- 
diately after dinner and attempted to write, 
thinking I would forget my misery. But 
the longer I wrote, the more hopeless every- 
thing appeared to me. Then I laid my poor 
tired head down and cried.” 

“lam so very sorry,” Meusa answered 
gently, drawing Edna to her. “I never 
saw you in tears before. What is the trou- 
ble? Couldn’t you confide in me? ” 

108 


109 


‘ ‘ It would do no good, ’ ’ Edna answered in 
a despairing voice. ‘‘You would be power- 
less to assist me. ’ ' 

“But, Edna, you know I promised to aid 
you in bringing back your lost love to you. 
You have been here more than one year and 
a half, yet I have done nothing toward it. 
How kind you have been, no one but my- 
self knows,” and her eyes filled with tears. 
‘ ‘ What would have become of me in Or- 
mond’ s absence if you had not been such 
a comfort to me. When will he come?” 
she passionately cried, forgetting all but 
her own misery, “why don’t he know how 
much I miss him ? ’ ’ 

“He will soon be home now,” Edna list- 
lessly answered; “then I trust all will be 
changed. I think that Paul should know 
the truth. Ormond feared that you might 
tell it in his absence, and he wants to be 
near you w^hen the blow falls. He is wise 
enough to know and see that the truth must 
be known sometime, and it is far better for 
Paul to hear it direct from him than an- 
other. Then the crisis will come, and that 


110 


will mean either happiness or misery for us 
all, and somehow to-night,'' she continued 
with a shudder, ‘ ‘ I fear it will be the latter. ' ' 

“Never mind, dearest," cried Meusa, “ I 
commenced to talk of your happiness, and 
like the selfish creature I am I forgot it at 
the first thought of myself. I cannot bear 
the idea of your being miserable and I 
happy in the knowledge of my love. How 
unselfish you have been. You have done 
ever3dhing for me, and not a single thing 
to promote your own happiness. Have you 
found out anything about the wife of the 
man you love? Whether she loves her 
husband or not ? ' ' 

“I have discovered," Edna slowly said, 
“that she does not love him and that she 
loves another." 

There was a peculiar look on Meusa' s face, 
and she tried hard to control her voice to 
calmness, as she answered : 

“Why then don't you try to win him 
back? " 

Edna gave her a searching look, but made 
no reply. 


Ill 


Suddenly Meusa grasped her friend’s hand, 
exclaiming : 

There, I won’t torment you longer, but 
will tell you what I have discovered.” 

Edna started to her feet, growing very 
white. 

Meusa gently pushed her in her chair, 
murmuring soothingly : 

‘‘Don’t, for goodness sake, get excited 
and faint, when I tell you I know that Paul, 
my husband, is the man you love and was 
your promised husband. I overheard your 
conversation in the drawing-room, and I 
must say I was horror stricken. I never 
loved Paul as a wife should, but I did not 
imagine him the black-hearted wretch that 
I had pictured to myself, who so basely de- 
ceived you. I believe,” she vehemently 
said, “ I can positively hate him now.” 

“Don’t,” Edna cried; “I know all the 
truth, and it is even blacker than you imag- 
ined. Yet I love him, for I am so weak, so 
wretched,” she cried, throwing herself at 
Meusa’s feet. 

‘ ‘ Don’t kneel to me, ’ ’ Meusa gently cried. 


112 


raising her tenderly. ‘ ‘ I think heaven 
sent you to comfort me, and to help Paul 
right his direful wrong. He is engrossed 
with himself now, but believe me, Edna, the 
time is not far off when his eyes will be 
opened, and he will love you enough to make 
up for the hours of misery he has caused 
you. I was all last night and to-day making 
up my mind about you and Paul. This is 
the whole matter in a nut-shell : I have a 
husband who should belong to you ; but the 
world has given him to me, and I am un- 
grateful enough not to want him, because I 
love some one else. You, in turn, love my 
husband, but think he does not love you. 
You should hate him, but you don’t, so you 
must be made happy. I have devised a plan. 
I think if Paul understood all he would be 
reasonable, but our hands are tied until Or- 
mond’s return, and I do not expect him be- 
fore the holidays. ’ ’ 

Edna turned to her friend and companion, 
crying, '‘Do you not hate and despise 
me?” 

‘ ‘ No, ” vehemently answered Meusa ; ‘ ‘ I 


113 


love you and will assist you in any manner 
that I can.’* 

^ ‘ But many a woman in your place, dear,” 
Edna continued, ” would brand me a traitor- 
ess and try to punish me as, perhaps, I de- 
serve.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose I would do that very thing, ’ ’ 
MeUvSa smilingly answered, “if it was Or- 
mond you loved in place of Paul, or if I 
loved Paul, not Ormond. You know it is 
not in many women to help a rival win the 
man she loves, but in this case I am no 
heroine. I don’t make the smallest sacri- 
fice. I am merel}^ giving you something I 
don’ t wish to possess. Come to think of it, ’ ’ 
she quickly cried, ‘ ‘ Paul must certainly be 
unlike most men to have dared to place us 
under the same roof and know we were 
friends. He must possess an undue amount 
of nerve or audacity, or perhaps both.” 

“I think he is careless,” Edua replied. 
^ * He eased his conscience by helping me 
financially, and I think he really thought I 
would be a help to you. His books and 
bobbies keep his eyes closed to his sur- 


114 


roundings, but his awakening will not be 
a dreamy nor a happy one, but horribly 
realistic. 

''Now, Edna, look here,’’ commanded 
Meusa; "I won’t have you a bird of ill 
omen. I mean we shall all be happy. Paul 
is the only obstacle in the way and must be 
brought to terms ; he will then be just as 
happy as the rest of us. Just think of it,’^ 
she cried, throwing her head back and en- 
joying her speech, ' ' Ormond and I will visit 
you and Paul on Christmas, then you and 
Paul will help us usher in the new year. 
We will be a sort of happ}?’ family ; rare thing 
nowdays. There, that is right,” as Edna 
joined in the laughter. 

''I want you to banish that funeral look 
from your face. I declare I am happier to- 
night than I have been for some time. I 
have often lain awake and meditated eloping 
with Ormond. Then the thought of Paul 
all alone, with no one to look after him, for 
you know he gets so lost in his books he 
needs some one to find him occavSionally, 
would make my heart condemn me for 


115 


thinking of such a thing. Now he is off 
my hands, for he can be far happier with 
you than he ever could be with me ; I shall 
tell Ormond when I see him that I will do 
anything he wishes. I’ll run away, tell 
Paul all, or not tell him, or, even better, do 
just as I please,” and she danced around 
the room like a pleased child. 

'‘Don’t be too sure of happiness,” Edna 
said ; ‘ ‘ the end is not yet. But you haven’t 
told me how you learned my secret.” 

‘ ‘ I accidentally overheard your conversa- 
tion in the drawing-room. I was standing 
at the window back of the curtains, and 
before I could make my presence known I 
overheard things that I thought would em- 
barrass you both if you knew I had a knowl- 
edge of them. So I remained silent, and 
from what was said I am convinced that 
Paul loves you better, much better, than 
any one else. But he is so set in his ways 
and lost in his thoughts that he either can- 
not see or will not. I dare say he is proud 
of me, as he is of a fine horse, but there it 
ends. Intellectually you are his mate, and 


116 


his intellect is the greatest part of him. 
When you get him all to yourself, you can 
no doubt bring him down to earthly things 
at times. That is more than I can do.'’ 

'‘Perhaps you don't try," Edna remon- 
strated. 

"No, I don’t. I have sense enough to 
know when I am well off and to let well 
enough alone." 

There was a rap at the door. It opened 
and Ormond stood smiling at them. Meusa 
uttered a cry of delight and flew to his arms 
half sobbing with joy. He pressed her to 
his wildly beating heart, and all the world 
grew fair to him. 

"Meusa, my love, my love," he mur- 
mured. Then turning to Edna he cried, 
‘ ‘ Mrs. Archibald, how glad I am to see 
you. What silly children you must think 
us. But you know love is impetuous, some- 
times bold, and will inflict others with its 
presence. ’ ' 

"There is nothing," Edna replied, with 
tears in her eyes, ‘ ‘ that brings me more 
pleasure than to see others happy. ' ' 


117 


They gathered about the open grate, and 
Ormond told them of his journey and suc- 
cess. Then a golden silence fell upon them, 
broken only by the ticking of the clock. 
Meusa’s hand was clasped tightly in that of 
Ormond’s, and she was too happy for words. 
She looked up as if a thought had occurred 
to her and cried : 

“Edna, can I tell Ormond?” 

Edna apparently understood her for she 
answered simply : 

“Yes.” 

Then Meusa told him Edna’s story. How 
she had suffered and been basely deceived. 
“And,” she added, “we mean to compel 
him to love her yet, to atone for all the 
heartaches he has caused her. Every 
sorrow caused he must repay with number- 
less days of happiness. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” firmly answered Ormond, “we 
will find him and force him to see what he 
has done, what he has lost.” 

“Oh, you needn’t look far,” calmly 
answered Meusa. “We have found him. 
He is quite near.” - Then she cried, look- 


118 


ing at Ormond with a very superior smile, 
“Don’t look at me so silly, please; you 
make me laugh. What I say is the truth. 
The man that Edna loves is none other than 
my husband, Paul.” 

“My God! Meusa; are you mad?” Or- 
mond cried in intense excitement. “Speak 
Edna — Mrs. Archibald, is she jesting?” 

“She is telling you the truth,” Edna re- 
plied, with downcast ^yes. 

Then, in the midst of his great surprise, 
it dawned upon Ormond what that knowl- 
edge might mean to him and for him. 

“Pardon the question,” he said, “but 
may I ask if Paul still loves you?” 

“Yes,” quickly answered Meusa; “he 
loves her as much as such an old bookworm 
can love any one. I know he does, but 
Edna thinks he cares more for me. Absurd, 
isn’t it?” 

“No,” smilingly Ormond replied; “I 
love you. Is that fact absurd? ” 

“Oh, that is quite different, ’ ’ she naively 
answered; “I love you and I couldn’t pos- 
sibly be absurd. ’ ’ 


119 


‘'Have you seen Paul? Edna asked. 

“No/’ he answered; “ I found the hall 
door unfastened and walked in. Finding 
no one, I made bold enough to come to your 
room.” 

Meusa walked to the window and looked 
out upon the night. 

“We shall have a white Christmas,” she 
cried ; “I am so glad. ’ ’ 

“Meusa, dear, don’t think me rude, but 
I must send you away now. I feel unusu- 
ally worn out to-night, and Mr. Radnor 
must be wearied also. ’ ’ 

Meusa turned and caught her breath with 
a little sob, saying : 

‘ ‘ Oh, Edna, don’t send me away so soon. ’ ’ 

Edna looked at Ormond, and his eyes re- 
iterated her appeal. 

“But, my dear, Paul will miss you and 
come in search of you. And,” she hesitat- 
ingly said, “he might be vexed at .Ormond 
not coming first to him.” 

‘ ‘ I will go tell Zura I mean to sleep with 
you to-night. I have often done the same. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, ” Edna answered ; ‘ ‘ but — ’ ’ 


120 


Meusa had left the room. She quickly 
returned, saying: 

“Now, you dear, you wouldn’t be so in- 
hospitable as to turn me out,” and she 
looked at Ormond with a little satisfied 
laugh. “ I know you won’t mind if I talk 
with Ormond jmst a little. You know,” 
she continued, “I have much to say to 
him.” 

“I will grant your request,” Edna smil- 
ingly said ; ‘ ‘ but you will have to excuse 
me.” I must lie down and rest.” 

“ Do so, ” sweetly cried Meusa ; “we will 
try and not disturb you.” 

Edna rose to go to her sleeping-room, 
but before entering she turned to Meusa, 
saying : 

“Don’t keep Mr. Radnor too long. Re- 
member he is tired and needs rest.” 

Then her eyes turned to Ormond and he 
read, “Remember I trust you.” 

Paul sat in his study long after the clock 
chimed the hour of one. Putting down his 
book with a weary sigh he dreamily ascended 
the stairs. He went straight to Meusa’s 


121 


room to bid her good-night, as had always 
been his custom since she was a little child. 
He found Zura half asleep, but no Meusa. 
Zura sleepily gave him the message, then 
took herself off to her own comfortable bed. 
Paul went to Edna’s door, and gently tap- 
ping on it, called, “Meusa, Meusa, are you 
asleep ? Don’ t disturb yourself. I only want 
to say good-night and pleasant dreams.” 

“ Good-night,” he heard her answer, then 
all was still. 

When Paul was disrobing for the night 
the bell in the hall rang furiously and long. 
He threw on his dressing robe and hastened 
to the door, wondering who could be there 
at that time. 

He opened it to hear Ormond cry: 

‘ ‘ Hello, old boy ! I am glad to be home 
again.” 

Paul grasped the extended hand in hearty 
welcome, and as they ascended the stairs, 
said : 

* ‘ I am afraid you will find a cold room 
waiting for you. Come and share mine. 
Meusa is with Mrs. Archibald to-night, so 


122 


we won’t keep her awake. Sorry you can’t 
see her. If it wasn't so dreadfully late I 
would call her. But only a few minutes 
since I called good-night to her through the 
door, and I knew by her voice she was almost 
asleep. 

Ormond protested that he did not mind a 
cold room, and that he rather liked it ; but 
Paul, on hospitable thoughts intent, would 
not listen, and took him to his own room 
and bade him be comfortable. 

Paul was soon in bed and fast asleep. Or- 
mond walked the floor, his face flushed and 
a determined look upon his handsome manly 
face. Then he undressed, threw himself on 
the bed, inwardly crying : 

“Pshaw, what a fool I am. All is fair in 
love and war, and she loves me.” 

But the morning broke clear and cold be- 
fore sleep visited his tired eyes and lulled 
his brain into forgetfulness. 


DREAM NINTH. 


Susp icion A wakened. 

The day was far spent. The hills and 
trees were covered with snow. It was the 
week preceding Christmas, and by the way 
nature lavished upon the earth her robe of 
white, a right royal Christmas it would be. 

‘ ‘ Took, ’ ’ cried Edna, ‘ ‘ there is a beautiful 
stag almost at the door. What a splendid 
creature he is. ” 

Paul joined her at the window, and they 
stood looking in silent admiration. 

''See how afraid, how timid he is,’' she 
whispered. ' ‘ Why did he venture so near. ” 

"Hunger, I suppose, forced him here," 
Paul answered ; "then, again, he may have 
accidentally strayed near. Do you know," 
he savagely cried, "should any, one harm 
him I would feel like killing them." 

"Why, Paul, how savage you are," Edna 
cried in surprise. 

"Yes, I feel so," he shortly answered, 
123 


124 


' ‘ I love to take my gun and dogs and hunt 
the deer in the forests and mountains, for 
there I meet him on his own level, and the 
most subtle of the two wins. That is a fair 
fight. But this unprotected thing comes to 
me, and says as plainly as he can, ‘ I fear 
you. Hunger has driven me here; have 
mercy.’ ” 

‘‘ Don’t you think your ideas are a little 
strained ? ’ ’ Edna softly asked. ‘ ‘ Don’ t you 
remember the scene between the snake and 
the dove ? You described it most vividly to 
me. To my mind, that was cruel (in a man- 
ner),” she quickly said, noting the frown 
on his dark handsome face. ” But to you, 
I presume it was just as it should be. Now, 
if I were a hunter and sportsman, I don’t 
believe I could resist the temptation of bag- 
ging such game. My better self would be 
lost in the excitement of the moment.” 

While she spoke a shot rang out upon the 
air and the stag bounded to his feet, then 
fell without a groan. 

Paul, with a curse on his lips, left the 
room quickly, followed by Edna. They 


125 


rushed down the wide stone steps, stopping 
suddenly at the sight that met their view. 

There stood Meusa with a still smoking 
rifle in her hands. Her face was flushed and 
her eyes were dancing with excitement. 
How beautiful she looked. Her short velvet 
jacket fitted to perfection her faultless 
figure, and on her golden curls was perched 
a jaunty velvet cap that made her face look 
very childish and sweet. At her side stood 
Ormond, no less excited than she. 

He was saying, ' ‘ Bravo ; good shot my 
Lady Meusa.” 

Then seeing Paul, he cried, “Don’t you 
think her selfish, taking all the honor away 
from poor me. Think what a mighty deed 
that little hand has accomplished.” 

Then for the first time he noticed Paul’s 
face. It was white to the very lips. 

“Why old fellow,” Ormond cried, “are 
you ill or frightened? We are all right.” 

Paul was trying to control himself be- 
fore replying. When he did so he ignored 
Ormond, and turning to Meusa he harshly 
asked : 


126 


‘‘Why have you done this?’^ 

His voice was hoarse with passion and a 
dangerous look was in his eyes, a look that 
she had often noticed when they were chil- 
dren. 

She cast a startled glance at Ormond, then 
looking at Paul, answered : 

‘ ‘ Why, because you taught me how to 
handle a gun. You told me thrilling hunts- 
men’s stories and created in me a huntsman’s 
desire. I killed the stag because I thought 
it would please you, and — and — ” desper- 
ately, “because I wanted to.” 

‘ ‘ Please me, ’ ’ he sneered, losing what little 
control he had mustered up ; “I did not 
know that I had ever taught you to kill the 
helpless and trusting. ’ ’ 

“I don’t understand 3^ou,” Meusa an- 
swered in bewilderment ; ‘ ‘ Ormond and I 
went out for a walk after lunch. We tracked 
the stag to this place. I, of course, was 
wild to bring him down with my own hands ; 
the opportunity came, and I did what I 
thought would please you — fired and killed 
him,” 


127 


Paul turned to Ormond and said bitterly: 

' ' So you are to blame, too. I am grieved. 
I did not think my cousin, one of my own 
blood, would prove himself a miserable 
coward.’' 

What!’’ cried Ormond; ^‘Paul how dare 
you?” 

‘‘Oh, Ormond,” cried Meusa in alarm. 
“ Don’t quarrel ; please don’t. Let us 
first know what it is about. Paul, for 
the love of heaven, tell me what you 
mean?” 

She stood between the two enraged men 
like an angel of peace. The wind had blown 
her cap off and was kissing her soft hair as 
if tr3dng to comfort her. 

“I can tell you in a few words,” Paul re- 
plied. ‘ ‘According to my ideas of right and 
wrong that stag should not have been killed ; 
he was trusting and helpless. ’ ’ 

“He wasn’t helpless,” corrected Meusa; 
‘ ‘ he could have run away. ’ ’ 

“Silence!” commanded Paul, using the 
insolent domineering tone he so often did 
when she was a child. “I say he was help- 


128 


less ; he was perhaps driven here by hunger, 
and that alone should have placed him above 
harm. I had hoped that you took to heart 
my teachings enough to know right from 
wrong. ' ’ 

' ' No, I have not, ’ ’ cried Meusa, now thor- 
oughly angry, but glad his anger fell on her 
and not upon her lover. ‘ ‘ That is where you 
have failed.'' 

'‘Why have I failed," reiterated Paul, his 
self pride thoroughly aroused ; "it was not 
due to my teachings. ' ' 

"No," scornfully answered Meusa; "it 
was due to self love and pride and from a 
domineering spirit. As a little child you co- 
erced and frightened me, but I am now a 
woman and quite capable of discerning right 
from wrong without your aid. ' ' 

She turned and left him, her head high 
and her step haughty and firm, like an in- 
sulted princess. 

Both men watched her until she disap- 
peared up the long flight of steps. Then 
Paul turned to Ormond, saying : 

‘ ‘ Ormond Radnor, I am very sorry this 


129 


has occurred ; not more for the slain stag 
than for you.” 

‘‘You need not waste your pity on me,” 
Ormond quickly replied, as he carelessly 
leaned upon the rifle which Meusa had 
dropped. ‘‘Don’t trouble yourself; I am 
all right.” 

“Don’t be too sure,” Paul hotly an- 
swered, with an angry twitching of the lips. 
‘ ‘ A man who would aid in killing a help- 
less animal, might, and I have no doubt 
would, do worse. He might, had he the 
opportunity, steal another man’s wife.” 

Ormond recoiled as if Paul had struck 
him, but he realized, above his anger, that 
Meusa must be the first consideration. Yet 
he could not resist the temptation to say : 

“Come, don’t let us quarrel like school 
boys. I don’t blame you for judging me so 
harshly, for you no doubt judge me by 
yourself. But of course,” he more gravely 
added, “after what has occurred I cannot 
remain here.” Then he determined upon a 
bold stroke and lightly said, “ If I did, I 
might steal your wife^ Think of it 1 ” 


130 


Paul forgot all anger in his astonishment. 
He looked at Ormond in a helpless way, and 
cried : 

‘'God bless me, Ormond, I did not mean 
that. Why such a thought never entered 
my head. I only used that as a figure of 
speech. I know Meusa don’t love me ; she 
is such a child she can’t love anyone. lam 
content to have it so. kove seldom brings 
happiness in this world. When you are in 
love, you are either upon the mountain top, 
soaring to heaven, or down in the valley, 
exploring hell. When I think of Meusa 
in love, the very thought makes me smile.” 

Ormond breathed freer, now that he knew 
Paul’s shot had been a random one. He 
stood in silence thinking what would be the 
best course for him to pursue, when Paul 
aroused him by saying : 

*‘Now, Ormond, forget what has hap- 
pened. I don’t want you to go away; the 
place would be lonely without you, and I 
am sure Meusa would miss you greatly. 
Pardon my hot words, shake hands and let 
us be friends^ ” 


131 


Ormond grasped the proffered hand, ex- 
claiming : 

‘‘You need not apologize to me. I think 
I understand that better than you do. ’ ’ 

Edna was waiting in the hall in horrible 
suspense, and when the two men entered, 
pleasantly chatting, she looked at them in 
wonder. 

Ormond passed her by and did not appear 
to notice her presence, but Paul stopped and 
addressed her in a manner that made her 
heart beat with a gladness that almost over- 
powered her. 

“You never knew I had such a beastly 
temper, did you? In the old happy days 
you never saw anything of me but the 
best.” 

There was something in her face that 
made him forget he was a proud self-willed 
man. In that moment he forgot even 
Meusa and that he was married. He stooped 
and kissed her upturned face. Then as if, 
when his lips touched hers, it reminded him 
of many things, he quickly cried : 

“Forgive me; both the reminder of the 


182 


past and the kiss. Believe me, I did not 
mean to hurt or wound you, but your face 
looked so childish and grieved. Yet I saw 
joy in it, too. I kissed you as I w^ould any 
grieved child. Forget it and try to be 
happy.” 

He strode up the stairs with his thoughts 
far from his books and hobbies. 

‘ ‘ Hang it all, ’ ’ he muttered, ' * what made 
me such a fool? I believe I am growing 
silly in my old days, but I can’t rid myself 
o{ the thought that somehow I have made 
a mistake.” 

He thought of these two women as pieces 
of handsome furniture. He had the choice 
of either, but after making that choice he 
kept reproaching himself for not taking the 
one he left. It did not matter to him that 
he did not love them. It was all sufficient 
for him to know he possessed them. Meusa, 
he was proud of ; she she was so stately and 
beautiful. He .swelled with inward pride 
when he exhibited her to the world as one 
of his possessions ; but she never appealed 
to his better self, as Edna did. 


138 


When with Edna he felt a calm, sweet 
feeling, as if at peace with the world and 
nimself. And that to Paul meant much. 
To be at peace wdth himself was unusual ; 
his was one of those peculiar natures that 
seldom know inward peace. He really loved 
Edna, but he would not open his eyes to the 
fact, or admit even to himself he was wrong. 

Going to his study he calmly reviewed 
the events of the day. The killing of that 
stag lay heavily on his mind, and he could 
not cease thinking about it. Then he fell 
to thinking of Ormond, and somehow, when- 
ever he did so, Meusa would rise up before 
him as if inseparable from him. 

“How foolish I have grown,'’ he cried. 

* ‘ Here I am staring at space while my books 
lie idle and neglected.” He picked up one 
that had kept him interested for hours upon 
the day previous, yet it had no attraction 
for him now, and casting it aside he abruptly 
left the room. 

He went to Meusa’s door and gently 
tapped. After some delay, Meusa opened 
it. She was still wearing her street jacket 


134 


and her face was red with weeping ; her hair 
had fallen down, and hung in a waving mass 
of gold down her back. 

“Why, Meusa,” he cried, “ what a sight 
you are. Take off your jacket at once,” he 
commanded ; ‘ ‘ then stop crying, and tell me, 
what in the world is the matter. I came to 
tell you I am not half as angry as I really 
ought to be. You were, in my judgment, 
very wrong, but magnanimously I forgave 
you. Had I known you were here alone, 
grieving, I would have come to you at once. ’ ' 
The only reply she made was to throw 
herself upon a soft cushioned chair and sob 
aloud. He went to her, for she appeared so 
genuinely distressed, and said in a coaxing 
tone : 

‘ ‘ Won’ t you stop crying and forgive me ? ” 
“Of course I forgive you,’’ she .sobbed; 
' ‘ it isn’t that. I am not crying because you 
have been hateful to me ; I am used to that. ’ ’ 
“What then,’’ he gravely inquired, “are 
you crying for? ’’ Her pathetic, ‘ I am used 
to that,’ hurt him. 

“ Oh,’’ she sobbed, “ I am nervous.’’ 


135 


“ Let me get you some wine,” lie cried, 
feeling very guilty, indeed. He turned, and 
saw something bright upon the floor, almost 
at his feet. He picked it up. It was the 
top of a gentleman’s cuff button, and he re- 
membered seeing it on Ormond. 

‘ ‘ How did this get here ? ” he cried, in 
genuine astonishment. 

Meusa started to her feet, her face grow- 
ing red with embarrassment. Then the tell- 
tale flush died away, leaving her pale and 
frightened, but she gathered herself together 
with an effort, and said : 

“As I came up the stairs I found it, and I 
accidentally let it fall on entering the room, 
and forgot all about it.” 

“Strange,” Paul answered, looking fix- 
edly at her ; “I noticed Ormond’s cuff but- 
tons, as he leaned on his rifle after you left 
us, and I could swear he had them both then ; 
and, of course, you came up the stairs before 
he did. Now, Meusa, are 3^ou quite sure 
you are telling me the truth ? ’ ’ 

“ No — I mean — oh, go away, Paul,” cried 
Meusa, in a helpless voice. “ I don’t know 


136 


what I am saying. You know extremely 
nervous people never do. ' 

“But you are not nervous, ’ ’ he calmly 
answered; “you are only trying to hide 
something from me. I know you are.“ 

“ Paul,“ she cried in desperation, “ how 
cruel you are. You will torment me until I 
have nervous prostration and die. Then 
what will you do ? “ 

' ‘ Have consolation in knowing you died 
with a fashionable disease, and not only 
lived up to the times, but died with the 
latest whim in your possession.” Paul an- 
swered with a light laugh. 

Meusa knew he was forcing a gayety he 
did not feel, for the look was on his face she 
dreaded most to see when she was a child. 

“There, little woman, don’t worry,” he 
cried, noting her drooping face; “I won’t 
tease you any more. Take a nap before din- 
ner, if only forty winks; it will do you 
good,” and he left the room. 

Meusa waited until she heard Paul’s study 
door shut with an emphatic bang. Then she 
went to the curtains that separated her 


137 


sleeping-room from her boudoir and softly 
said : 

^ ‘ Hurry now, he has gone. ’ ’ Ormond ap- 
peared very red and apparently uncomforta- 
ble. * ‘ I think you might have known 
better,’' Meusa continued, ‘Hhan to have 
dared come in here. I have had such a 
fright.” 

Ormond looked at her with reproachful 
eyes and left the room in silence. 

“What strange beings women are,” he 
exclaimed after having gained his own room. 
“I never dreamed of going to her room, but 
her door was open and she called me just for 
a moment. If I had refused she would have 
been angry, and now she is angry because 
she had a fright on my account and because 
I did go in. Queer things women are. I 
feel somewhat abused. Until you know 
them, they resemble a box of fire-crackers ; 
likely to go off at the right time, also the 
wrong. ’ ’ 

Paul was holding communion in his study 
also. 

‘ ' Strange, ’ ’ he thought, ' ‘ that this should 


138 


be in her room. Then slowly it dawned 
upon him about Ormond’s agitation of the 
afternoon, and it struck him a terrible blow. 
“I would show him no mercy,” he hissed 
between his strong white teeth ; ‘ * abso- 

lutely none.” In his wounded pride and 
anger he forgot the time when he stood in 
the position he suspected Ormond did, and 
he also failed to remember that he who 
should have shown him no mercy quietly re- 
nounced all for him, and after the sacrifice 
he basely betrayed both the living and the 
dead. But this to him was entirely different. 
He was in a position to feel for that man 
now, but could he rise up to a level with him 
when the trial came. Wait and see. 


DREAM TENTH. 


Wounded Pride, 

Why will women trUvSt men when their 
reason and intuition tell them they will be- 
tray that trust in nine cases out of ten, and 
that at a time when they most need a strong 
arm to lean upon? Wh}^ does the heart 
rule supreme above all reason and better 
judgment? 

I don’t mean to say all men are not true 
to their word, and think nothing of break- 
ing it under circumstances that ought to be 
sacred to them. 

Those of my readers who have a clear 
conscience will know within themselves I 
do not mean them ; but those who have 
done as Paul did will surely find that just 
what they cause another to suffer that will 
they also suffer, pang for pang,' heartache 
for heartache. They can then sympathize 
with, and look back in sorrow and pity upon 
the life, perhaps lives, they have wrecked, 
and like Paul will find that the sin they 


140 


thought buried will return, and they will be 
compelled to harbor it, no matter what they 
otherwise wish. 

In Paul’s case, that best, in his angry 
mood, seemed bad indeed. He was shut up 
in his room fighting the same pain Edna 
had fought and conquered. He did not 
love as she had, but his pride made him 
suffer most bitterly. 

' ‘ Pshaw, ’ ’ he cried, ' ‘ I am looking 
through the glass of w^ounded pride, and it 
has magnified the few little facts I have 
accumulated into high proportions. Meusa 
would not dare to love without first consult- 
ing me.” (Oh, egotistical man, how I pity 
you.) ” I have ruled her absolutely in all 
things, and I have not lost that power yet.” 

Losing the power of ruling her was of 
far more importance than the loss of love. 

His thoughts drifted to Edna, just as all 
men’s do when they find they have been 
betrayed. They think of the one they have 
made suffer, and pity them in the same pro- 
portion that their own hearts crave for pit3\ 

Had Meusa confided in Paul he would 


141 


have given her up to be happy. He looked 
upon life in a practical way, and thought it 
was not worth living if happiness was left 
out. 

He brought his hand down upon the table 
as he cried : 

' ‘ What a fool I was not to have known 
and appreciated Edna and been true to her. ’ ’ 

He began to realize he had lost much 
when he threw her faithful love aside and 
followed his own self-will and mad caprice. 
Walking to the window he mused : 

''I shall do nothing but watch and wait. 
'All things come to him who waits.’ I’ll 
wait,” and he grimly smiled. 

' ‘ If I find them guilty, they shall suffer, 
and after that, what ? ” he inquired of him- 
self. ' ' She who has suffered and is blame- 
less shall be rewarded if she will accept 
reward from my hand. I think I could be 
happy again. Oh, Meusa my child,” he 
groaned, "had you but trusted me and fol- 
lowed out m3’’ teachings 3^ou would have 
been spared much. But you did not, and if 
I find you guilty, I shall not spare you*” 


142 


Edna’s voice aroused him. 

‘‘ Paul may I come in,” she softly said; 

' ‘ Not now, ’ ’ he cried ; ^ ' I will see you in 
the drawing-room.” 

Then he heard her slov/ly turn and de- 
scend the stairs. For once in his life he 
made haste and soon joined her. There 
was a pleased expression on her face when 
she saw him. 

‘‘I did not look for you so soon,” she 
laughingly said. ”What has caused such 
a change? ” 

Nothing,” he cried.; ‘‘only that I have 
turned over a new leaf. Now I am at your 
service. What can I do for you ? ’ ' 

“I want to ask you to go with me for 
hollies to-morrow. You know it is Christ- 
mas eve, and we want the rooms to look 
their brightest and best.” 

‘ ‘ Why not take Ormond ? ” he carelessly 
inquired. 

‘‘Because I would rather have 3"OU,” she 
quietly answered. 

He looked at her keenly, but could read 
nothing in her face; 


t :> 


H3 

' ' I think I can go, ’ ’ lie slowly said. Then 
looking her in the eyes, he cried : 

^ ' Edna, are you sure it is hollies you want, 
and are you quite sure you want me. as an 
escort ?’ ’ 

He half suspected some plot against him ; 
now that his suspicions were aroused, he sus- 
pected every one. In a few short hours he 
was so unlike himself he even distrusted the 
being he called self. 

"Why, what an idea, Paul,” she laugh- 
ingly cried; "don’t be frightened, I shant 
run off with you. I know you too well to 
do anything so rash.” 

To her amazement he drew her to him and 
kissed her hair in his old caressing way. 
She remained silent, half thinking it was a 
fancy of her much troubled brain. 

"Why, Edna,” he reproachfully cried; 
"you never acted like this before. You 
haven’t returned even one little 'kiss. In 
the old days I got them back with interest.” 

"Yes, that is true,” she murmured. 
‘ ‘ Then you were mine. Now — ’ ’ 

"I belong to another,” he quickly said, 


144 


gently putting her from him. ' ^ Is that what 
you would say?” 

She was standing before him like a grieved 
child. 

”Yes,” she gently said, and her voice 
had a pathetic ring, while her lips quivered 
painfully. "That is what I mean. You 
are not only lost to me, but your wife is my 
friend.” 

He felt now, when it was too late, that 
Edna would have been a joy and comfort to 
him had he but been true. He could have 
still retained Meusa as much as he now did, 
for he realized she was nothing to him. Then 
he might, in time, have given her to some 
one worthy of her. But he saw his love of 
ruling, self-conceit and pride had placed 
him in an unenviable position. 

He had trampled Edna's devotion under 
the iron heel of his own selfish pride, and 
Meusa, for whom he had done all this, had 
returned him blow for blow. Now when he 
thought all he had to do was to ask of the 
wronged one to trust him, and she would fall 
into his armswdth cries of joy, he found that 


145 


she was the stronger of the two, and he was 
powerless to command. 

Meusa had torn down his self-pride and 
trampled it in the dust, and he turned to the 
one he had wounded, for comfort, but found 
it not. 

‘'Edna,'’ he said, in a way peculiar to 
him, ‘ ‘ I think I have made a fool of myself ; 
but never mind that now. Sit down, I want 
to talk to you. Tell me truly, as a friend of 
Meusa’ s, do you think she cares for me as 
you — pardon me. I mean as a wife should 
care for her husband?” 

Edna realized she was nearing the goal, 
and the thought made her cautious. 

“How can I tell, Paul,” she evasively an- 
swered. “Even a friend, a true one, cannot 
read a wife as a husband can. I should 
think you could answer that for yourself. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Edna, I believe you are keeping some- 
thing from me. But never mind, keep your 
secret, while I tell you what I know. Or- 
mond loves my wife and she is not indifferent 
to him. Now tell me, what do you think of 
the news?” he smilingly asked. 


146 


don’t know what to think,” she re- 
plied on the defensive. ” I am too afraid of 
injuring Meusa to even express my opinion. 
If I was sure no harm would come to her I 
might venture to express it, but until I do 
my lips shall be sealed. I would not injure 
her, nor would I injure you.” 

” Injure me,” Paul cried; ” there is not 
a woman alive who has the power to injure 
me, through love. People sometimes make 
mistakes and regret them. I may have 
made one myself, but don’t bother your 
head about Meusa and me. The only regret 
I have is the concealment. If Ormond 
loves her, let him have her, and had he 
gone about it in the proper manner he 
could have had my blessing. But as it is, 
I fear it will be my curse. ’ ’ 

” Oh, Paul,” cried Edna, ”you surely 
will not do anything to harm your wife. 
You would not be so cruel.” 

”Well,” he reflectively answered, ”I 
wouldn’t like to, but you know from your 
own experience that for every moment you 
spend in heaven you suffer weeks of hell. 


147 


Why should some suffer, and others more 
guilty go free ? ’ ’ 

“Paul, Paul,“ Edna cried, sinking on her 
knees at his feet, “don’t talk so. She is 
nothing but a child. No matter what she 
may have done, you shall not harm her.” 

“Ah!” he cried, “then you admit she 
has been wrong. My wife, whom I trusted 
has betrayed me.” 

If Edna had been so inclined, she might 
have flung the truth of his betraying another 
man’s trust at him and silenced him. But 
she was generous, and uttered no word of 
blame. She was thoroughly alarmed for 
Meusa and her only thought was for her 
happiness. 

“You do not know what you say, Paul. 
You imagine all those things. Your fears 
may be groundless.” 

‘ ‘ No,” Paul cried, now thoroughly angry; 
“do you see this? I found it in her room. 
How came it there ? ’ ’ 

Edna saw in his hand the tell-tale sleeve 
button, and her heart sank, but she bravely 
answered : 


148 


“Par.1, dear, listen; that does not prove 
her guilty of betraying you. I^et us admit 
she loves him, he her. It is no crime, no 
sin to love. How can man or woman help 
or be called accountable for that which they 
are powerless to prevent. Love is a part of 
some people ; it lives and burns while life 
lasts. And I think it will burn its way to 
the hereafter and there live, if in another 
form. And worst of all it comes unbidden 
to most of us, and still clings and remains 
even after it has been insulted and abused. 
Yes,’' she brokenly cried, “ clings forever. ” 

She buried her face in her little hot hands 
and sobbed aloud in her distress. He took 
her hands and very tenderly stroked them, 
and raising her from her knees, drew her 
to him, crying : 

“Faithful friend, faithful heart, true 
through it all. No, don’t draw away. I 
am your friend ; as such let me comfort you. 
Stop sobbing and listen to me. Trust me, 
and tell me what you know about my wife 
and Ormond. If you confide in me I will 
promise two things. First, that no harm 


149 


shall come to Meusa. Second, I will atone 
to you for the wrong I have done you/’ 

He could feel her heart wildly throbbing 
beneath his hand, as he held her close to 
him. She tried to speak, but could not. 
When, at last, recovering herself, she 
whispered : 

‘‘Stoop down, closer, Paul, and listen. I 
love you. I have continued to love you 
when I should have hated and despised you ; 
but that I could not do. There was nothing 
in my heart but love as deep as the restless 
sea. Next to you I love the woman I 
should despise. If you do nothing to injure 
her I will accept your atonement as a price- 
less gift, but I would lose all that I hold 
dear upon this earth — and the dearest is your- 
self — rather than harm one hair of her 
head. Paul, I leave you to answer. Can I 
trust you? Will you crush your pride and 
self will ? ’ ’ 

There was silence; Paul’s eyes never 
left her face. At last he regretfully an- 
swered : 

“Your experience with me should tell 


150 


you ‘No/ most emphatically. But I can 
truly say now, while I hold you close to me, 
I believe I love and care for you more than 
ever I did, and as much as I can care for any 
woman. I am fickle, like all men of my 
stamp ; it is not in us to be true and con- 
stant. We lack the thing that we read 
about, that the world raves about, a loving 
faithful heart. But why blame us? I see 
some men ready to fall down and worship 
the object of their love. That, to me, is 
foolish, and I cannot understand it. I begin 
to think that it is not that man who is at 
fault, but I who am lacking. Nature 
blessed him with a true heart and a loving 
one, yet through some caprice made me 
what I am — a man incapable of loving 
divinely or appreciating that higher, holier 
love in others. But as I said, such love as I 
have to give I lay at your feet.’’ 

“Oh, Paul, Paul,’’ she cried, “I would 
rather have 5"ou with your poor conception 
of love than another who would fall down 
and worship me.’’ 

Then as if the awful impossibilities swept 


151 


over her faithful head, she cried despair- 
ingly : 

“Oh, why did you leave me, why forsake 
me? All might have been so different. Now 
four lives may be ruined through you.’' 

“That brings us back to the starting 
point,” he gravely answered. “If you 
think you dare tell me the truth, I will do 
what I can for the happiness of all.” 

Then Edna told him of Meusa’s love, but 
she would allow no breath of suspicion to 
fall upon her, and she finished by saying : 

“Now, Paul, I want you to understand 
that you have not been wTonged. Meusa’s 
only sin has been in loving Ormond, and 
how could she help that. Poor child, she 
has suffered much, and I know she must 
have been tempted at times to follow where 
her heart led. But she resisted, and I know 
she is worthy of all the praise that I can 
bestow upon her. ’ ’ 

Edna’s words and manner were so earnest, 
so convincing, Paul could not but believe 
her. 

“It does not matter,” he quietly said. 


152 

‘‘She, no doubt, has betrayed me in 
thought. To me that is quite as bad, and 
Ormond, he — then he suddenly checked 
himself and quietly finished, “is better 
than I am, do what he might. One thing 
more, I must be thoroughly convinced of 
their love, through nothing I have been 
told or suspected, but what I see for myself. 
Then I will take the necessary steps toward 
happiness for all. At present, Edna, say 
nothing to Meusa. Wait and trust me,“ 
and pressing a hot burning kiss upon her 
brow he left her saying, “don’t forget we 
go for holly to-morrow at ten o’clock.” 


DRKAM KIvKVKNTH. 

Unconsciously Drifting, 

The next morning when Paul awoke, for 
once in his life, his hobbies and books had a 
second place in his thoughts. He turned 
upon his pillow and reviewed his past from 
the day he first met Edna, and now saw 
many things clearly that heretofore he had 
been blind to. Yet he could not analyze 
himself to his own satisfaction. 

There had sprung up in his heart a hate 
for Ormond which he tried hard to ignore. 
He knew he had broken as many command- 
ments as Ormond, yet he could not bring 
himself to forgive the only one that affected 
him. 

To do Paul justice, he tried hard but 
failed. He seemed determined to give Or- 
mond the just punishment that he himself 
should have received. 

For Meusa he merely felt contempt for 
her cowardly weakness, in not confessing 
153 


154 


to him and trusting to his manliness and 
generosity to release her. 

He called to mind how Edna had acted, 
and how far superior in all things she was 
to his wife, and he cursed himself for ever 
giving her one heartache. 

It was his nature never to forgive deceit 
and concealment, and he was, this morning, 
not sure of himself, and he felt he would do 
something that he might regret before he 
was out of the tangle, the first threads of 
which were knotted by himself. There was 
but one thing he was sure of, and was de- 
termined upon, and that was that Edna 
should not suffer another heartache. 

“ No,” he exclaimed aloud, springing out 
of bed, ‘ ‘ she shall not. I will sacrifice every- 
thing first. Yet how small I shall feel,” he 
soliloquized. “ My pride has been trampled 
upon, the teachings of years wasted and un- 
heeded, and I am laughed at behind my 
back.” 

He looked at the clock, which indicated 
nine. ' ' How late I have slept, ’ ^ he thought. 
‘ * I have grown a stranger to myself in the 


155 


last few hours.’* He was changed, all 
changed, and the change bewildered him. 

Paul was an habitual early riser and ac- 
customed to spend the early morning hours 
in studying and working out his pet theories. 
Hastily leaving the room, his first act was 
to go and get Meusa his accustomed morning 
offering of flowers. 

‘‘I will send her a warning by them,” he 
thought. “I will send a bunch of tiger 
lilies, and if she heeds it not, her unhappi- 
ness be upon her own head.” 

One hour later he found himself in the 
sleigh, with Edna by his side, looking charm- 
ing in her soft gray furs. He wrapped the 
robes carefully around her, then taking the 
reins in his fur-encased hands, they merrily 
started amid the jingling of bells and the 
voice of Meusa crying : 

”A merry time, Paul; don’t run away 
with Edna, and remember lots of holly for 
the wreaths. ’ ’ 

Paul looked at his companion who seemed 
to read his face, for she averted hers and re- 
mained silent. The silence was unbroken 


156 


save by the grinding noise of the runners, 
as they flew over the crisp snow, and the 
merry jingle of the bells. 

In the meantime Ormond was as happy 
as if hate never existed in this world of 
ours. He suspected nothing, consequently 
feared nothing. He sauntered to Meusa’s 
boudoir and found her sitting with a bunch 
of flowers on her lap. There was a troubled 
look on her usually bright face. 

‘ ' What is the matter, dear one ? ^ ’ he cried ; 
* ‘ what makes you look so troubled ? ’ ' 

‘ ' Took ! ’ ’ holding up the flowers, ' ‘ I was 
so happy until I came to my room and found 
these. You know Paul has always sent me 
a morning offering of flowers ever since he 
brought me home as his wife. Heretofore 
they have been lilies and roses — ^white ones 
— for he knew how I loved them. When 
he was displeased with me he would place 
among them a red rose, and I somehow 
grew accustomed to read his feelings toward 
me by the flowers, and you see this morning 
he has sent me tiger lilies. I fear that 
means I must beware of something, I know 


157 


not what, but fear he suspects or knows of 
our love.’’ 

‘‘Nonsense,” Ormond replied, throwing 
the flowers upon the table and taking her 
hands, ‘‘how should he know? The un- 
lucky finding of that button proves noth- 
ing.” 

‘‘You don’t know Paul,” Meusa an- 
swered; ‘‘I am afraid that did open his 
sleepy eyes. Ugh!” she cried, ‘‘what on 
earth makes me feel as if I was having a 
shower bath of ice-water? ” 

‘‘Because you are foolish, and perhaps 
nervous, ’ ’ he answered. Then as if a thought 
occurred to him, he cried, ‘‘do you think 
Edna could have betrayed us?” 

‘‘ Oh, Ormond, how can you?” Meusa re- 
proachfully cried ; ‘ ‘ I would as soon suspect 
yourself. She might tell him, though, if she 
thought it would benefit us. After all, Or- 
mond,” running her fingers through his 
curls, “if Paul did or does know of our love 
we have never done aught to wrong him. 
We simply love one another. He can’t put 
us to death, even if he wanted to, for that.” 


158 


Ormond placed her golden head upon his 
breast and lovingly smiled as he answered : 

My innocent love, you don’t know the 
world, particularly the men in it. Appear- 
ances are all against us. If Edna should tell 
Paul what she knows she might swear on a 
thousand Bibles there was no wrong in our 
love, yet Paul would not believe it, neither 
would the world. Paul knows nothing of a 
love that fills the heart and soul, that refines 
and purifies. He could not love as I love 
you. The human part of his love would tri- 
umph over the higher feelings. I do not say 
this to blame or censure him. There are 
many men like him, and I think they do try 
to be different, but just at the time when 
they think they have conquered the unex- 
pected happens, and they fall back to the 
starting point.” 

Meusa looked at him in a bewildered 
way, then naively inquired : 

''Oh, Ormond! are you then so much 
better than other men?” 

He could not resist smiling, even when her 
face looked serious and trusting. 


159 


' ‘ No, ’ ’ he cried ; “ I have, at times, no bet- 
ter thoughts than they, but I have the will 
to conquer myself, which they lack. If I 
had followed my own desires I might have 
j ustified anything that I did by telling my- 
self ours was a hopeless love. But I thought 
of you and conquered. Never mind, dar- 
ling,” he cried, feeling how she trembled, 

‘ ‘ don’t worry. Let us go down to the draw- 
ing-room and sing until Paul and Edna 
return.” 

“I don’t want to sing,” Meusa replied, 
“ I want to remain where I am. I want to 
be with you.” 

He rose from the stool at her feet and 
walked to the window, where he remained so 
long that Meusa at last joined him. She 
drew his head back and kissed his face. He 
turned and caught her in his arms, and pas- 
sionately cried : 

“Don’t, my dear white dove, don’t do 
that. Come,” he almost roughly cried, 
“you must come out in the garden with me. 
I will go anywhere with you, but I must not 
remain here.” She looked at him with 


160 


fl*iglitened, startled eyes. Then before she 
could make a reply, he released her and strode 
from the room. 

She stood irresolute for a time, not know- 
ing what was best to do. Yet the most im- 
portant thought to her was that she had in 
some way offended him. She turned and left 
the room, slowly making her way to the 
drawing-room. There she threw herself 
upon a chair and sobbed out her grief. Here 
Ormond found her, and told her in gentle, 
loving words, she had neither offended nor 
displeased him. 

‘ ‘ Then what makes you act so strangely ? ’ ’ 
she inquired, with tear-filled eyes ; ‘'just at 
the times I fancy you love me most, you 
abruptly leave me as if I was hateful to you. 
Oh, why don’t we tell Paul all, and go away 
and be happy?” she finished, with quiver- 
ing lips. 

” It is not the telling Paul,” he answered, 
“ that I object to, but I see no way out after 
he is told. If he should give you to me you 
would be compelled to go through the divorce 
court for legal freedom, or I would have it 


161 


thrown in my face at every step that I had 
stolen another man’s wife. We cannot set 
aside the laws of society and the world with- 
out bringing condemnation upon our heads. ’ ’ 

‘‘I never thought of that,” Meusa slowly 
answered ; I thought Paul the only obstacle. 
I did not think the world had anything jto 
do with our love. I do not love Paul, and 
I feel that in living with him without love 
heaven frowns upon me as sinning against 
myself and it, yet I feel assured it smiles 
upon our love. ’ ’ 

” But you don’t seem to understand that 
sometimes what heaven smiles upon the 
world frowns at as something low and far 
beneath it. And most unfortunately we are 
in the world at the present time.” 

” Then I would rather be in heaven,” she 
cried ; * ‘ there I know we would be happy 
together. ’ ’ 

‘ ^ Alas, ’ ’ he answered, with a ring of bitter- 
ness in his tones ; “if the meddlesome world 
would let us alone we could find our heaven 
here.” 

He stooped and kissed her, as Paul’s voice 


162 


said, Meusa, here is your holly. We have 
brought you enough to make you a green 
Christmas, at least inside.*’ 

There Paul stood looking at them, and 
like the guilty things they knew themselves ‘ 
to be they remained silent, waiting for the 
blow they felt sure would fall. 

Meusa was very pale, and Ormond stood 
looking at Paul with defiance in his eyes. 
Paul looked as if enjoying the silence, then, 
to their astonishment, he burst into a ring- 
ing laugh, and cried : 

''For goodness sake, what are you staring 
at. Come along. The lunch bell has rung 
and I am famished,” and he left them, to 
join Edna in the hall, and together they 
went to the dining-room. 

Meusa looked at Ormond, and whispered 
in a frightened voice, “What shall we do 
now? ” 

' ' Nothing, * * he replied, ' ' let us be guided 
by him. Let him take the first step. Come ; 
we will join them at lunch,” and he kissed 
her white lips, ' ' to put a little color in them, ’ * 
he laughingly said. “ Don’t look so fright- 


163 


ened, my dear. No matter what comes, I 
will remain by your side.’' 

Paul was so gay and unlike his glum, 
thoughtful self, Meusa began to hope he had 
not seen that fatal kiss after all. Edna was 
silent, but very happy. Her heart was at 
rest. She knew Paul’s feelings for her, but 
she wondered if all would come out unhurt 
in the mad game that love was playing with 
them. 

She half suspected Paul, as far as Meusa 
was concerned, but her gloomy thoughts 
were soon dispelled by going to the drawing- 
room and making wreaths, and festooning 
the rooms until they looked like forerunners 
of Christmas indeed. 

Paul willingly resigned his books for the 
afternoon to help make a merry Christmas. 
The bells were ringing out the advent of 
Christmas morn ere they separated for the 
night. Their greetings were quickly fol- 
lowed by good-nights, and soon the house 
was silent on this Christmas morn which 
should bring to them and all the world, 
** Peace on earth good will to men.” 


DRKAM TWKI.^TH. 

Brave Through Fear, 

Meusa was lying on a couch in her hand- 
some boudoir, looking the personification of 
contentment and happiness. Paul had ap- 
peared so contented and happy, and acted 
so like a jolly school-boy, that what sus- 
picions she had were lulled to rest. She had 
rid herself of the strange forebodings that 
she had confided to Ormond. In her heart 
she knew she was innocent of all wrong. 
She was interrupted by Zura bursting into 
the room in a wild, frightened way, saying : 

' ' Me think Master Paul bad spirit. Him 
charm big snake. No Afraid of nothing. 
Ugh ! Ugh ! ’ ' and she turned to her mistress 
as if for protection. 

“Why, Zura,“ Meusa cried in astonish- 
ment, ‘ ‘ what are you talking about ? What 
has master done ? ' ' 

“Big heaps. Him big medicine man. 
Zura go down to flower-house to get flowers 
for you. Me go easy ; 'fraid of big snake ; 

164 


165 


Open door soft like and creep in. Then me 
hear noise, hiss, hiss. Me see Master Paul 
standing by Wild Rose (Edna) and on floor 
lay big snake. It stick its tongue out and 
slowly crawled to where they stand. Zura 
no go way; me so Traid. Wild Rose was 
pale. White Master had her hand, and me 
hear him say, ‘ Be calm, don’t get nervous.’ 
Snake creep nearer and nearer. Zura sure 
it swallow them both. Me shut eyes, me so 
’fraid; me open them again quick and see 
snake crawl in the air and nothing to crawl 
on. Snake’s head was above White Mas- 
ter’s. They no move. Then White Master 
raise his eyes to snake and it stop still, then 
fall in big heap on floor like dead. Me say 
him bad spirit. Him big medicine man, and 
Zura much ’fraid him hurt you.” 

Meusa listened in silence to this marvel- 
ous, incoherent tale. When Zura had fin- 
ished she said, gently : 

Zura, I hope you haven’t been drinking 
Master Paul’s fire-water ? ” 

” No ! no !” Zura earnestly replied ; ‘ ‘ me 
no touch fire-water ; me hate it ; makes 


166 


Zura’s head ache. Me see all me tell with- 
out fire-water. ’ ^ 

‘‘It seems scarcely possible, this tale,** 
her mistress answered. “If you truly saw 
it, I suppose I must believe you. Ah, here 
comes Mrs. Archibald,” as Edna entered. 

‘ ‘ Why how pale you are, * * Meusa cried, go- 
ing to meet her. ‘ ‘ Do sit down and tell me 
what has happened. Zura has been telling 
me of yourself, Paul and that awful snake, 
and a lot of things that I cannot under- 
stand.’* 

“Oh, Meusa,” Edna cried, “I have had 
such a dreadful experience. ’ ’ Then she told 
Meusa how Paul had asked her to go down 
to Paradise with him, telling her he would 
entertain her well. “And Meusa,” she 
cried, “imagine my horror when he opened 
the sliding-door of the snake’s case. Then, 
taking my hand, he said, ‘ I know you are 
no coward, and I am going to show you 
something that a coward could not endure.’ 
I thought I should have died of fright when 
the snake moved toward us slowly, but 
surely. I would not allow Paul to see how 


167 


afraid I was. The result was as Zura told 
you. I thought we were about to be stran- 
gled and crushed together. Paul raised his 
eyes and the snake fell in a heap, apparently 
lifeless at our feet. Paul turned to me and, 
pressing my hand within his own, said 
‘ Brave little girl. I am proud of you. Not 
because you were not afraid, for you were. 
I could hear your heart throbbing wildly in 
the silence. But because you conquered that 
fear.’” 

' ‘ And you did not even cry out ? ’ ’ incred- 
ulously questioned Meusa. 

”No,” answered Edna, a little of the old 
color returning to her cheeks. “But I was 
horribly afraid. After all,” she contin- 
ued, “I would rather die with Paul than 
live without him. Send Zura awa3^ I have 
something to say to you.” 

After Zura left the room Edna turned to 
Meusa, led her to a couch and said : 

“Now we are comfortable and can talk. 
Meusa, I think the time has come for us to 
risk everything and either gain or lose. ’ ’ 

Then she told Meusa of her conversation 


168 


with Paul. ‘ ‘ I am certain Paul saw Ormond 
kiss you, for he said that you might yet be 
happy. You know sometimes actions speak 
louder than words, and I gained my infor- 
mation more from his actions than his 
words, and somehow I have taken heart and 
still hope for a happy ending. Meusa,” 
earnestly asked Edna, ‘ ‘ are you quite sure 
you do not care for Paul ? ’ * 

“Me!"’ exclaimed Meusa, *'of course I 
don't love him. How silly you are. ’ ' 

“Well, you see," gravely answered Edna, 
“because I care for him I imagine every 
other woman does the same." 

“Not a bit of it," gayly cried Meusa; 
‘ ‘ as far as I am concerned you can have him 
and welcome. I think Paul a man who 
means well, and if he had the right woman 
as a solace and comforter he might prove 
one man amongst many. But I am not the 
right one, and I cannot even help him. We 
are like the cat and dog that lay peacefully 
by the fire, one on either side. But when 
the little girl tied them together all harmony 
and peace was gone, and nothing but dis- 


169 


cord remained. I am sure I don’t blame 
the cat or the dog, but I do blame the little 
girl for tying them together. ’ ’ 

Edna laughed in spite of herself, as she 
said : 

‘ ‘ Woman is a strange problem ; the world 
lays down certain laws and rules for her, and 
society flatters itself she is obeying them, 
while all the time at heart (where the wrong 
lies) she is setting them at defiance and 
obeying but the one, self and self pleasure.” 

”Yes, I know,” Meusa answered. “I 
am doing all that. But the important thing 
is, now that Paul knows, what am I to do ? 
Shall I fall down on my knees and beg his 
forgiveness, or — ” 

” Meusa,” gravely cried Edna, ” don’t 
jest. It seems to me too serious a matter to 
admit of jesting. Paul told me he must be 
convinced with his own eyes. That when he 
saw you in the arms of the man you love, 
and was able to judge for himself, then he 
would take what steps seemed to him neces- 
sary for your happiness. ’ ’ 

” Oh, Edna ! won’t you send for Ormond 


170 


to come at once, then send for Paul, the 
wise, to come and behold us? There, never 
mind, dear,’' as a cloud flitted over Edna’s 
face, “I won’t be foolish again. I suppose 
I ought to be worried, but the truth is, I 
can’t find even a ghost of a worry to save 
me. This is one of my happy days. I 
have no doubt, ’ ’ she more gravely continued, 
‘'the worry will come soon enough.” 

They talked long and earnestly of the 
future; Meusa persisted in painting glow- 
ing pictures for them which had the effect 
upon Edna of making her shudder rather 
than smile. It was at last arranged that 
Edna should tell Paul where he would find 
Ormond and Meusa, and place him in a 
position of being convinced for himself. 
Meusa suggested that Ormond be in ignor- 
ance of the plot. 

” For, ” she laughingly cried, ‘ ‘ I suppose 
what Paul wants to see is a desperate 
despairing love.” 

“But have you thought of the conse- 
quences?” anxiously inquired Edna. 

‘ ‘ Oh, ’ ’ Meusa lightly answered, ‘ ‘ I can 


171 

manage Ormond and you must attend to 
Paul. There now, don’t look like a wise, 
solemn owl, ’ ’ she cheerfully cried. ^ ‘ It will 
come all right. It will be a grand climax. 
Forsaken husband silently watching suc- 
cessful rival make love to his wife. Then 
comes the discovery. Husband raves and 
tears his hair, while successful rival smiles 
and remains silent. Then an old sweetheart 
of forsaken husband comes upon the scene, 
and peace is restored through her pouring 
oil upon the troubled waters. All ends by 
forsaken husband saying to unfaithful wife 
and lover, ‘ Bless you, my children, bless 
you/ 


DRKAM THIRTKKNTH. 

The Storm Breaks, 

Do yon mean to tell me that my wife/* 
with great emphasis on ^my/ *‘has 
proven false to my teachings, has betrayed 
me behind my back ?’ ' and Paul Ravenwood 
looked at Edna, his pride aroused and his 
face white with rage and passion. 

“Oh, Paul, don’t get so excited,” Edna 
entreated ; “I did not say any such thing. 
I simply told you I had proof that she loved 
Ormond and he more than loved her — he 
worshiped her. I did not tell it to bring 
harm upon your wife, my friend; I told 
it, thinking perhaps for the sake of those 
bygone days you might listen to me, and 
allow me to plead for her. Paul! Paul!” 
she cried, “don’t make her suffer as I have 
done. I knew what it was to live with one 
I could not love. It is worse than death, the 
most bitter of all lots. Pardon me,” as she 
saw a stern smile curve his lips, “I know 
Meusa shows bad taste, but she is not to 
172 


173 


blame, and I fear you are. Won’t you 
listen?” as he turned from her. “Don’t 
hate and despise all women because one has 
fallen short of your ideal. That is unjust, 
cruel. I, the woman that you wooed, won 
and betrayed, then forsook, still love you. 
Oh, God ! ” she cried, all the pent up misery 
of years gushing forth, “how I have loved, 
how I have suffered. I — I cannot even now 
see one bright spot in the future. All is as 
black as the streamers of crape that fluttered 
from our door when my husband lay dead. 
I live, yet the best part of me is gone, and 
I dare not put out the emblem of death. 
The world would only sneer at a broken 
heart.” 

Throwing herself upon the floor she aban- 
doned herself to her misery. She was a 
strong, brave woman, but when she pledged 
herself to flght Meusa’s battles she found 
out how weak she was, for she was battling 
with friendship on one side and love and 
tender pleading on the other. She longed 
for a strong arm to lean upon, if only for a 
moment. 


174 


Paul had told her he still loved her, and 
she believed him. Yet she knew he was in- 
capable of a love that could rise above the 
grosser things of life and live in an atmos- 
phere of purity and self-sacrifice. 

If his pride could be kept from being 
wounded, from taking a hand in the strange 
complicated affair, all might go well. But if 
not, all would be lost, and she was yet young 
and so longed .for a little happiness. Her 
whole heart yearned and cried out for the 
love that was denied her. 

When she first came to Ravenwood Hall 
she would have accepted Paul’s love at any 
price; now everything was changed. Meusa 
was her friend, and she felt that she would 
rather die than betray that friendship. 

‘‘Edna,” get up,” cried Paul, as he 
gently raised her and held her to him. 
“Your misery is like a great stab in my 
heart. My eyes are open at last and I see 
myself as I am and have been, an egotistical 
fool. It is only right that I should suffer 
what I made you endure. Before God, I 
swear I will sacrifice everything, if needs be^ 


175 


to atone to you for my cowardly conduct. I 
left you when you most needed me ; I was 
cruel, inhuman. Henceforth I devote my 
life to you, and you only. You can make 
a man of me by helping me when I am weak 
and encouraging me in my strength.’^ 

Edna could not speak. Never before had 
she known him in such a mood. His words 
made her very happy, and she believed and 
trusted him. Yet she could not quiet the 
fear and dread within her. 

‘ ‘ Eook up, Edna, he softly pleaded ; ' ‘ let 
me see your eyes and hear you say that you 
still trust me ? ’ ' 

She raised her eyes to his face, and the 
answer he read sufficed. 

He laughed a bright, happy laugh, such a 
one as she had not heard since the day he 
was her hero, she his love. 

'‘There,’' he said, “I must go, but I can- 
not promise anything now. I must think 
what is for the best. As for Meusa, I will 
believe you in the matter. You can tell her 
for me I retract my wish to see her with her 
lover ; I will not trouble them. But I tell 


176 


you, Edna, in my heart there has been a 
deadly hate for Ormond, and I fear I shall 
have to call upon you to help drive it out. 
It was not brought there through any feel- 
ings of jealousy, but my self-pride was 
wounded and resented the thrust. Now 
your devotion and love has cast a softening 
influence on what little heart I can boast of. 
I think I can fight and overcome my weak- 
nesses. We will be happy in our own way, 
you and I, and allow the world the same 
privilege.’* 

‘‘Paul,” she answered, with a determined 
ring in her voice, ‘ ‘ that I do love you is need- 
less to say, but I will accept no happiness 
from your hand until I know Meusa is safe 
and happy. Safe from the idle tongues of 
the world. When such a time comes, then I 
am yours for all time and eternity.” 

His face clouded with anger, and he half 
turned as if to go. 

‘‘Don’t be angry, Paul. Think a mo- 
ment, and I know you will see I am right.” 

‘‘I am not angry,” he petulantly cried; 
‘‘I am bitterly disappointed. Why must 


177 


Meusa interfere with you and me ? Haven’ t 
you suffered enough ? ” 

“Yes,” she calmly replied, “too much. 
I suffered and waited for years, yet you re- 
fuse to wait, perhaps, for only a few days or 
weeks. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I know you think me foolish ; I think 
myself so. But I can’ t help it. I don’ t know 
that I am Paul Raven wood, I am so changed. 
My books are neglected, my hobbies are laid 
by. I only think of you and how to make 
you happy. Yet I know that my feelings 
are not wholly actuated by love. It is, in 
part, a desire to rid myself of the feelings 
that of late have rankled in my heart, that I 
am a miserable coward and traitor. I feel all 
this, and I imagine the world recognizes it in 
me also. Only yesterday I went down to 
Camp Rescue, and I imagined the men looked 
at me in pity. I, Paul Ravenwood, pitied. 
But of course it was imagination. I have 
kept you here too long; have I wearied 
you?” he gently inquired. 

“ No,” she softly answered, “I am hap- 
pier than I ever expected to be. But I am 


178 


thinking of Meusa, and wondering how I 
can help her.'' 

“Curse Meusa. I beg your pardon,'' he 
quickly cried. ‘ ‘ But let her alone. Think 
of yourself and be happy. Meusa has proven 
she can be so without our aid. I only ask 
you to trust me.'' 

“I will, Paul. I will take Meusa your 
message, and I know she will be very happy 
to receive it.'' 

“No doubt,'' he dryly said. “Good-bye 
little sweetheart,'' stooping to kiss her, but 
she turned away. “What," he cried, “not 
even one kiss?" 

“No," she slowly answered, “I fear I 
must repeat what I before told you. When 
Meusa is safe and happy, yes. But until that 
time you must be patient, very patient." 

“He looked at her for a moment, then 
turned on his heel and left her. When he 
reached the hall he met his wife. She saw 
something unusual in his face and grew con- 
fused, and stammered : 

“Why, Paul, I— I— thought— " 

“You thought I was poring over my books, 


179 


You were mistaken. Go into the drawing- 
room. Edna is there waiting to see you. 
When you have finished with her come to 
my study ; I will await you there. ’ ' 

He strode along the hall rapidly, entered 
his study and threw himself upon a chair by 
the open window. The air was balmy with 
soft spring breezes and he was soon lost in 
thought. He heard a timid knock on the 
door and, upon opening it, Meusa stood be- 
fore him. She was not the wilful Meusa of 
old, but more like a timid frightened child. 
He apparently did not notice the change, 
but placed an easy chair for her at the win- 
dow, and she seated herself without a word. 
There was a silence, that to her grew very 
oppressive, and she drew a sigh of relief 
when she heard Paul say : 

‘ ‘ Have you seen Edna ? ’ ' 

‘ Wes, ” she replied, while her eyes sought 
the floor. 

Somehow, as she sat there with Paul look- 
ing at her, she felt as if she had broken the 
whole Ten Commandments and perhaps 
some new ones of Paul’s making. 


180 


I suppose she gave you my message?’* 
he inquired, in the same even voice. 

“Yes,” Meusa answered, wishing the 
floor would open and swallow her up. 

“Then listen to what I have to say,” 
Paul said, still in the same even voice. 

Every remnant of courage forsook her 
and she dropped upon her knees before him, 
sobbing : 

“Don’t, Paul; please don’t scold me. I 
know I am a great sinner compared with 
you, but indeed I can’t help it and I am so 
sorry if I have broken your heart. But I 
never loved you as a wife ; I always thought 
of you as a wise big brother. ’ ’ 

He smiled in spite of himself. ‘ ‘ Break my 
heart ? What a tender conceited child you 
are. No, my dear wayward one, you haven’t 
broken my heart, but you have wounded 
my pride, trampled under your feet all my 
teachings, and to me that is far worse than 
breaking a dozen hearts. Don’t cry and 
spoil your bright eyes and your patrician 
nose, but look upon me as your brother and 
tell me the truth. Then I can help you.” 


181 


‘‘I cannot/^ she sobbed; ** indeed I can- 
not. I feel so ashamed that I did not trust 
you in the beginning. If I had I might 
have been spared many a wretched hour.’' 

‘ ‘ Those that were spent with me ? ” he in- 
terrupted, '‘but never mind. You needn’t 
say ‘ Yes. ’ Tell me everything. ’ ’ 

“I have nothing to tell,” she cried in 
desperation. ‘‘Only that I love Ormond, 
and have since the first night I met him, 
and I know he loves me. Indeed, Paul, I 
did try to fight against it, and if you had 
been less engrossed with yourself, and re- 
membered that I was a child no longer, I 
might have been saved. ’ ’ 

“Saved,” he reiterated, “from what? 
Haven’t you been happy in your love? ” 
“Oh, yes,” she cried, then remembering 
herself, she stammered, “if — you — had 
been different I might have been happy 
with you.” 

“I have no doubt,” he answered with a 
smile, ‘ ‘ but unfortunately I am Paul Raven- 
wood not Ormond Radnor, and it is the lat- 
ter that you can be happy with, not me. 


182 


Now don't worry. I am going to make a 
proposition to you. If you will be candid 
with me, and conceal nothing from me of 
the past or in the future, I will believe in 
you and trust you. I will forget that you 
are my wife and be a father to you if pos- 
sible. But Meusa, remember, you must do 
nothing that would make you blush for 
shame to tell your father. Will you do as 
I ask?" 

There was silence for a short time, then 
she answered in a low tone : 

‘‘Yes, Paul, I will." She told him all 
there was to tell, keeping nothing back 
except the part Edna played in her love 
dream. She told him of Ormond’s will and 
higher self, that saved them both. Paul 
listened in silence. He could not understand 
such a love, but Meusa’ s tone and manner 
convinced him, and he believed her. 

" My child," he gravely said, ‘‘ I believe 
you, but I cannot understand such a love as 
you tell me of ; but after what you have said, 
I begin to think my teachings have not 
quite failed after all. I allowed hate to creep 


183 


into my heart against Ormond, but your 
words have shown me he does not deserve 
it. He has not done right, but he has done 
better than I should had I been placed as he 
has been. I will trust you in the future. 
You may tell Ormond of our interview if 
you like. Also say, it need make no differ- 
ence in our friendship. I ask no explana- 
tion from him. I desire that you may both 
be happy. Go now,” he said, leading her 
to the door. 

She stopped at the threshold as if wishing 
to say something. He saw her hesitation 
and kindly inquired, 

“What is it?” 

‘ ‘ I hope you won ' t f eel lonely and unhappy, 
and fancy that no one cares for you,” Meusa 
said, with a shy look on her face. “You 
have been very kind to me and I want you 
to be happy also.” 

“You need not have your future marred 
by the thought of my being wretched. I am 
only beginning to know what real happiness 
is,” Paul replied. 

Meusa simply answered, “I am very 


184 

glad/* and was gone before he could say 
another word. 

Half an hour later, she and Ormond went 
by the window where he sat, talking and 
laughing as if life for them was nothing but 
sunshine. 

‘'Ah, me,** he cried, “there is nothing 
like youth and love, after all. Can it be 
possible that such a love as theirs can exist 
in this world of sin and sorrow. I believe 
what she told me, and yet sometimes a doubt 
will creep into my heart in spite of myself. 
Ormond should give his life to some great 
noble cause, rather than devote it to a puny 
little love ; for the man that conquers self is 
the man to rule his fellow men. 

He picked up his hat and started for a walk. 
He found himself unconsciously going toward 
the childhood home of Meusa. Something 
seemed to urge him on. The cabin still re- 
mained, and he knew every spot of ground 
about it. In front of him a man was hur- 
riedly walking, whom he recognized as a man 
living at Camp Rescue. 

Paul quickly hailed him, and at almost the 


185 


same moment they entered the cleared space 
where the cabin stood silent and deserted. 
Two graves marked by white marble slabs, 
stood out in bold relief. Both men started. 
Bill Jones, the miner, looked at Paul, then 
hurried on. 

Paul saw the look and ground his teeth in 
rage. By the graves stood Ormond and 
Meusa. She was bitterly weeping, and just 
as Paul and his companion entered the clear- 
ing, Ormond took her in his arms and kissed 
her tears away. 

Had Paul been alone it would not have 
troubled him. But he did not intend to take 
the world into his confidence, and Bill Jones 
looked at him as much as to say, “I pity 
you.’' 

Paul followed his companion’s example 
and quickly left, unobserved. He sat down 
on a fallen tree with his heart filled with 
rage. He started out with nothing but kind 
feelings and a firm determination to do what 
he thought right. 

Now by one little act, and one pitying 
look, he was transformed into a being that 


186 


wished only for vengeance, simply because 
his self-pride was wounded and he had been 
pitied by a man his inferior. 

He meant to arrange matters so that no 
one could either blame or pity him. 

He thought a crime no crime until it was 
discovered. Now he felt sure his name would 
be upon the tongues of the whole country 
and that was more than he could bear. Even 
if he went away thousands of miles, the fact 
still remained that they were pitying him in 
his absence. 

It half frightened him when he realized 
that the only thought that was in his heart 
now was revenge ; that meant ruin for the 
helpless lovers. Had he done as his anger 
dictated he would have killed them then and 
there. But he fought off the desire and 
walked on, determined to go to the camp 
and face it out. 

Upon entering it he met an old man he 
had known from boyhood, who saluted him 
with his accustomed: 

“How are you. Milord. “ 

But in Paul’s present frame of mind he 


187 


imagined there was a sympathetic ring in his 
voice. He ground his strong white teeth 
and strode on. 

As he entered the village store there was 
a buzz of conversation, but on seeing him 
silence fell upon the crowd, and again he 
fancied that all eyes were directed upon him 
in a sorrowful way. After transacting his 
business, he left the store, closing the door 
with a bang. Quickly remembering he had 
forgotten something, he reentered just as 
one of the men was saying : 

‘‘Poor devil, I pity him.’' 

He arrived home in time to dress for din- 
ner. Throughout that meal he was very 
silent. Ormond tried to get him interested 
in an argument, but was unsuccessful. 
After finishing dinner they rose to go to 
the drawing-room, but at the door Paul ex- 
pressed a desire to be excused, and went 
alone to the balcony to smoke and think. 

All was silent for some time. Then below 
he heard voices and knew Meusa and Ormond 
were there. He strained his ears to hear 
what they were saying. Something seemed 


188 


to force him to play the eavesdropper. At 
first the voices came to him in an indistinct 
jumble, then he heard Ormond say : 

'‘He has proved himself a true man. I 
never thought he would act as he has done ; 
I felt rather uncomfortable at dinner, he 
was so silent ; I began to torture myself 
with the thought he cared for you after all. 
I sincerely hope he won’t prove the dog in 
the manger now. I really felt like a thief 
at dinner. I know, to me, you are a price- 
less jewel, and in loving you I do pity him, 
and somehow I feel he needs my pity.” 

‘‘What was that?” Meusa cried, as 
something like a small ball of fire flashed by 
them and struck the ground. 

Ormond stooped and picked it up, and 
found it only a half-smoked cigar still 
lighted. They both laughed, but had they 
known what the falling of the cigar meant 
for them, the laugh would have frozen upon 
their lips. 

One hour later they entered the drawing- 
room and found Edna and Paul there, but 
what a changed man Paul was, 


189 


He was very pale> and appeared like a man 
but half awake. When he talked with 
Edna he was very gentle and kind, but 
away from her he was morose and silent, 
and his voice was harsh and strained. 

Meusa soon saw and felt something out of 
the ordinary had occurred, and silently bid- 
ding Ormond good-night crept out of the 
room. Ormond following her example, 
went out into the grounds to smoke anotl>:^r 
cigar. Edna had also noticed the change 
in Paul and half suspected the cause. 

think I am tired also,’^ she said, turn- 
ing to him ; “I believe I shall go to my 
room.’' 

“Tired of me?” he mournfully inquired. 

“No, no,” she quickly said; “if I had 
only myself to think of, I would remain by 
your side as long as you live. But I won’t 
allow myself to be so selfish. I am deter- 
mined to finish the rule I began before I 
allow myself to be happy. Good-night,” 
and she rose to go. But he suddenly 
caught her hand : 

“I think I am learning what love is. 


190 


Tell me, is it a thing that makes you feel 
that without the object of your devotion 
life would be unbearable? Does it make 
you both wretched and happy? Tell me, 
Edna, is that love ? ' ’ 

‘ ‘ I can only answer you in the words of 
Parthenia : 

“ What love is, if thou wouldst be taught. 

Thy heart must teach alone ; 

Two souls with but a single thought. 

Two hearts that beat as one.” 

^‘That is it,'’ Paul answered; feel 
such love in my heart for you. I fear I 
have jumped from one extreme to the other. 
I was cold and selfish in the past ; now I 
feel the love that I once scoffed at burning 
my very heart out. Oh, Edna, my dear, ’ ' he 
cried passionately, “let me love you ! Take 
me back to your loving heart and arms as 
in the old days. Eet me love and caress you 
as I then did." 

She gently disengaged herself from him, 
but out of the pity of her heart she kissed 
his bowed head. But when he would have 


191 


gathered her to him, she pushed him away, 
saying : 

* ' Remember what I told you, Paul ; wait 
and try to be patient ; then, with a back- 
ward nod of her little head, she left him 
standing a silent, mournful figure all alone. 

Had she known what was then in his 
mind, she would not have felt so happy as 
she tripped lightly up the stairs. 

Had she allowed him to lavish his new 
found affections upon her and not, through 
a sense of duty to her friendship, forbade it, 
all might have been well. But her actions 
only brought the fearful doom nearer that 
she was trying so hard to avert. 


DRKAM FOURTKKNTH. 

Peace at Last, 

Paul Ravenwood was a man who put 
great reliance in his own theories. He 
solved life's perplexing problems in his own 
way and to his entire satisfaction. Love 
had made a great change in him — had re- 
created him — and he knew and recognized 
the change. 

For the time, love ruled him absolutely. 
This love for Edna spurred him on and he 
determined to end the matter himself and by 
his own methods. 

Ormond and Meusa appeared to him as a 
mere unit. Edna filled his heart and life. 
He went about the house so mute and 
thoughtful that every member observed his 
silence and commented upon it. Even the 
servants spoke of the change to one another. 

He said to himself ‘ ' I will make one more 
effort to win Edna over to my way of look- 
ing at the matter, and if she still insists upon 
192 


193 


adhering to her ideas of friendship, then I 
shall act. Edna must be happy here with 
me. Ormond and Meusa can be happy any- 
where. I don’t know how I can adjust 
matters without some one suffering. Edna 
must see the bright side of life here before 
she goes to the great unknown. Poor 
child,” he murmured, “how I have treated, 
how misjudged her.” 

That night, after dinner, he asked Edna 
to stroll with him in the garden. She threw 
a light shawl about her and soon they were 
out among the flowers. The stars above 
them winked and blinked at them, as if 
knowing of the love that filled their hearts. 

The beautiful night had a softening in- 
fluence upon them. Paul taking her hand 
retained it in his own ; it was hot and 
feverish, and Edna felt very gentle and kind 
toward him, as they strolled together. She 
was troubled about him and, woman like, 
blamed herself for his appearance. Yet her 
heart told her it was pride that had wrought 
the change. She thought she should have 
stepped in between Paul and pride, and 


194 


saved his suffering what she knew was a 
just punishment. 

It don’t matter what a man does or how 
he treats a woman; if she loves him she 
will find an excuse for him at all times, and 
often will readily believe a lie from his lips 
because it eases her heart. Common sense 
is hushed to sleep upon the bosom of love 
and gently laid away in the cradle of ob- 
livion. 

They were standing by a clump of bushes 
that were putting forth their sweet white 
buds. Paul was telling Edna of an idea that 
he had, and showing her how nature and 
heaven, to his mind, were twin sisters. 

The moon rose in all her pale beauty, 
looking down upon them as if smiling on 
their love. All was still as they stood with 
clasped hands drinking in the beauty and 
inspiration of the hour. 

Paul, under the spell of the moment, was 
his old natural self. They were abruptly 
aroused by a scattering of pebbles on the 
other side of the bushes, and they heard 
Meusa’s voice saying : 


195 


“I will be there, but ugh! I don’t like 
the place since that ugly reptile has crept in. 
I wish Paul had left it where it belonged.’^ 

'‘Don’t envy him the little comfort he 
gets out of his favorite, Meusa,” Ormond 
replied ; poor Paul, I do feel sorry for him. 
I fear he feels this affair more than he will 
admit. He is so changed of late. I pity 
him. I have a strange feeling to-night when 
I look at the stars and the pale moon sailing 
in the heavens. If I believed in presenti- 
ments, I should fear some coming evil. It 
may mean that death is near to some of us. 
Never mind, darling,” for Meusa had grown 
ghastly in the moonlight, "I was a brute 
to talk so foolish. We will never be 
separated.” 

“I hope not,” Meusa answered, clinging 
to him ; “I want nothing better than to live 
by you, and with you, and when the call 
comes die in your dear arms. It would not 
be death to me if you were near.” 

Edna saw Paul’s face grow hard and stern 
while his whole manner underwent a com- 
plete change. He stood there like an aveng- 


196 


ing spirit. Edna drew closer to him, for she 
was frightened and trembled violently. 

He placed his arm about her in a mechan- 
ical sort of way and remained silent. She 
raised her face to his and whispered the one 
word, ‘ ‘ Paul. ’ ’ Gradually the stern features 
relaxed, and love was once more shining 
from his eyes upon her. 

“Are you cold, my darling,^ he tenderly 
said ; ' ‘ you are .shaking as if with a chill ? ’ ' 

Edna’s answer was a burst of tears. Or- 
mond’s words rang with a persistency in her 
ears that baffled all effort to drive them away. 
Paul looked at her, then drew her to him, 
and in loving tones endeavored to plead his 
cause and force her to see through his eyes. 

“Ah, Paul,’’ she answered, smiling 
through her tears, “you have been accus- 
tomed to have everything your own way, 
and I know it is hard for you to find I must 
insist upon a little of my way. You thought 
you would only have to say come and I 
would be yours. To be frank, it is hard for 
me to resist you. If only dear Meusa was 
settled and happy where the world could not 


197 


sneer at her, you would not have to plead in 
vain. I would give myself to you, trusting 
you until I died.’' 

‘ ‘ Then I tell you Meusa shall not remain 
as a barrier betwen us any longer, ’ ’ he cried. 

“What would you do? ” Edna asked in a 
startled voice. 

“Nothing,” he abruptly answered, “but 
make all happy. Come with me to Para- 
dise ; I want to see King. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ Edna cried. ' ‘ It makes me shud- 
der to-night to think of that snake. Take 
me to the house.” 

He did as she asked, and they walked on 
in silence. 

‘ ' Surely, ’ ’ thought Edna, “ he is changed. 
In the old days I would not have dared 
thwart him where his hobbies were con- 
cerned. Yet to-night he uttered no word 
of blame, nor even smiled at my weakness. ’ ’ 

The next morning at breakfast Paul an- 
nounced his intention of going to the city 
for several days, and by way of explanation 
said he did not feel quite well, and thought 
a change would prove beneficial to him. 


198 

Truly his haggard looks vouched for his 
statement. He remained in his study all 
the morning, and after lunch left for the 
little station, all unconscious that he was 
being followed. 

Zura had grown to suspect him. Her 
love for her mistress caused her to watch his 
every movement. This little child of the 
forest anticipated some coming evil, and she 
could not rest. 

That morning she had carried a bunch of 
crushed red roses to her mistress, from her 
master, and when she handed them to her 
they left two crimson stains on her little 
brown hands. She would never forget the 
cry her mistress gave, or forget how she 
looked, when she took them. Some of the 
crushed petals fell down the front of her 
white morning dress, and they looked like 
great drops of blood. All day long the 
faithful Zura was troubled, and resolved to 
watch her master and shield her mistress 
from harm, if possible. 

She was rewarded by seeing Paul, instead 
of taking the path to the station, take the 


m 


short cut to Camp Rescue. There he re- 
mained until night cast her black pall upon 
the earth, then he stole back like a thief 
and entered Paradise, followed by faithful 
Zura, who crept behind a large palm and 
waited. 

She could hear Paul talking, and it seemed 
to her caressing something that she thought 
was the snake. Then all grew still, no 
sound breaking the silence. Zura waited, 
crouched and trembling, afraid to move lest 
she be discovered or stumble upon the snake, 
cold drops of perspiration stood upon her 
forehead and she was half paralyzed with 
fear. How long she waited she knew not, 
then she saw the door open and Meusa 
enter, followed by Ormond. 

Never before had her mistress looked so 
beautiful. She wore a white robe that showed 
every outline of her magnificent form, and 
to Zura she was like nothing so much as an 
angel. Ormond hurried toward her, and her 
beauty appealed to him as it never had be- 
fore, and he grew intoxicated by its spell. 

‘ * Why did you bring me here ? ^ ’ she softly 


200 


asked. ' ‘ I don’ t like this place. I am afraid. 
I hardly know myself. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I knew there was danger in my forget- 
ting all but that I love you. Yet I braved 
everything and came. Oh, my love,’' he 
cried, * ‘ if there is not soon a way found that 
I can call you mine, I will defy all, even 
you, and take you and keep you for myself. 
I am strong, but I have about reached the 
limit of my endurance.” 

‘'I know,” Meusa soothingly answered, 
‘‘the time will soon come when we shall 
never be parted again. Paul assured me of 
that only this morning before he left. Do 
you know,” she added in a whisper, “I 
suspect and fear him of late, and that 
bunch of crushed roses was like a warning 
to me.” 

“Never mind Paul,” Ormond cried; 
‘ ‘ think of me. ’ ’ Then turning her abruptly 
about, he said: “Why did you wear that 
dress? Even you are leagued against me.’’ 

“I am sorry if it offends you,” she half 
tearfully said ; ‘ ‘ the night was warm and I 
thought it the most becoming and at the 


201 


same time comfort able.' You never scolded 
about my dress before. ' ’ 

‘‘No/' he cried, flinging himself face 
down among the moss and violets ; “I was 
never so near losing myself in the desire to 
make you mine as I am to-night," and he 
buried his face in the moss and she saw his 
entire frame quiver. She knelt down by his 
side and kissed his hair. He turned his 
flushed face to her and drew her gently to 
his breast, raining kisses upon her face and 
neck. 

“What a strange sweet odor pervades 
everything," she said, starting up. “Am I 
going mad, tell me dear, what is it? " 

‘ ‘ Only the crushed violets beneath us, that 
is all," he answered. 

“But I am so drowsy," she murmured. 
“I think I am going to sleep. Hold me 
closer dear, closer to your heart," and with- 
out another word she fell asleep with her 
head pillowed on his arm, her fingers lov- 
ingly caressing his hair. He too found him- 
self fast succumbing to a sleep that seemed 
to be caused by that peculiar odor. He 


202 


looked at Meusa. There she lay, fast asleej), 
nestled close to him. His eyes closed in spite 
of himself, and with his last remaining 
thought he pressed his lips to hers. Then 
it grew dark. In her hiding place, Zura 
also was fast asleep never to wake again. 
Those faithful eyes could not see that Paul 
had entered and cautiously approached where 
Ormond and Meusa lay, apparently asleep. 
He stooped down and listened, then mut- 
tered : 

'‘The old Egyptian was right. It did the 
work and did it well. Poor child, poor boy, 
I was compelled to treat you thus. I had to 
do it. I could not atone to her while you 
were in the way. You did not suffer. You 
are now at rest and Edna can be happy.” 

He looked about him as if expecting some 
one, then suddenly recollecting himself, he 
walked away with bowed head, not even 
giving the poor lovers one backward glance 
as they lay in their last sleep. 

"What’s that!” he cried, as his foot 
struck something. "Ah, I forgot; I left 
the sliding door open. Come, King,” he 


203 


cried, in a commanding tone, ‘^back to your 
house. ’ ’ 

The snake was accustomed to obey him, 
as if it understood his very words. But 
now, in place of obedience, it uttered a hiss, 
long and loud, and before Paul had time 
to act, the snake coiled itself about his body. 
In vain he struggled; in vain he tried to 
free himself, but he could not. He, too, 
had met his doom. He tried to cry aloud, 
but could not. He was being slowly crushed 
to death. His brain was last to die ; as in a 
dream he heard the crushing of his bones. 
There came from his throat a gurgling cry. 
He fell, the snake about him a writhing 
mass. An instrument of retribution. 

lycona awoke with a start and found she 
had been dreaming a succession of bad 
dreams, but horribly real. When again she 
fell asleep the man returned, and gravely 
said : 

“ You have lived again your past life. 
Now you know all.'*' 

Then he told her where to go and how to 


204 


find her first home, and in that home still 
lived Edna, waiting for their return as a 
knowledge that he, Paul, was working out 
his redemption. 

‘ ' Now, good-bye, ’ ’ he said ; ^ ' I have made 
you suffer, but according to the laws of my 
world I am permitted to atone, and now I 
am only awaiting my love, to be forever 
happy. * ’ 

>1^ vL* 

nS 

It was a beautiful autumn day. The sun 
was gradually sinking in the west as a party 
of three alighted at a little railway station. 

‘'What a wild goose chase we are on,'* 
laughed the gentleman of the party. ‘ ‘ But, ' ' 
he continued in a laughing way, “woman's 
curiosity must be gratified." 

The speaker was Leon Russel, and his 
companions were his wife and their summer 
friend. Miss Dormer. They had come to 
the west to find out if such a thing did 
exist as a home of Mrs. Russel's former 
existence. The ladies were really interested 
in the search, and Mr. Russel came out of 
idle curiosity and to oblige his wife, whom 


205 


he could not refuse anything. They in- 
quired at the station if there was such a 
place as Ravenwood Hall, and found after a 
little search that there was a few miles away 
an old tumble down mansion that had the 
reputation of being haunted. 

' ‘ Does any one live there ? ^ ' Leona in- 
quired. 

‘'An old lady and one servant, I believe,’’ 
their informer answered, “but the name of 
that place is Desolation. I never heard any 
other name. I say. Bill,” to an old man 
who passed them, “you know more about 
this country than I. Did that old mansion 
up there ever have another name besides 
Desolation?” 

The old man stopped, scratched his head, 
then said : 

“ Why yes, man, it did. When I was a 
young man it was called Ravenwood Hall, 
and was owned by a handsome Englishman, 
a Milord, and he lived there with his beau- 
tiful wife. I knew them both well. But 
one day they suddenly disappeared, and with 
them a relation of the man.” 


206 


Mr. Russel, growing interested, gradually 
moved toward the speaker, and stood almost 
in front of him. The old man raised his 
eyes to him and tottered back, crying : 

‘'Why, bless my heart, man, how you 
startled me. You are the image of that 
man. His name, let me see, was — I think 
Radnor.’' 

Mrs. Russel had joined her husband and 
stood by his side, pale but intensely inter- 
ested. The old man’s eyes had a frightened 
look as he saw her, and he brushed his hand 
over them as if he would see clearer. “Bill 
Jones, ’ ’ he cried, ‘ ‘ you are losing what little 
sense is left in your old toothless head.’' 

Then addressing Mr. Russel, in a tremu- 
lous voice, he said : 

“The lady, sir, is the image of Paul 
Ravenwood’s wife. Ah, I see,'' brighten- 
ing up, “you are his daughter. Miss. For 
were your mother living now, she would be 
old and gray." 

“ No," quickly replied Mr. Russel, think- 
ing Teona was about to faint, she looked so 
gastly standing by his side, “we are no 


207 


relation whatever. We are travelers, and 
hearing of this old place thought we would 
like to see it. Thank you for your infor- 
mation, and here is something for your kind- 
ness,** and he put a crisp new bill into the 
old man’s hand. 

Just then the conveyance was brought up 
that was to take them to the old hall, and 
they were off to find out if their journey 
would prove successful or not. They were 
all silent for a time, but Mr. Russel, catch- 
ing Miss Dormer’s eyes, laughed outright, 
for they said as plainly as they could, ''I 
told you so.” Then he looked at Leona’s 
pale face and tenderly said : 

‘ ‘ If you are going to worry about all this 
rubbish you will make yourself ill. Then I 
will blame myself for bringing you to such 
a beastly place.” 

The carriage stopped, and the driver put 
his head in the open window and said : 

”You will have to get out here, for I 
can’t get through the brush with the team. 
Go right up there and follow the path, and 
it will lead you to the house.” 


208 


They alighted and walked in silence along 
the narrow path in the direction it led them. 
Suddenly an old mansion loomed up before 
them, looking ghostly in the twilight. 

Mr. Russel rang the bell, and the sound 
echoed dismally through what seemed to 
them a deserted house. After some time of 
waiting, the door opened and a half grown 
girl stood before them in open-mouthed 
astonishment. Leon turned to the ladies 
and in a perplexed way asked : 

** Who on earth am I to inquire for ? ’* 

‘^Mrs. Archibald, of course,’’ Leona an- 
swered. 

** Is your mistress in? ” he inquired of the 
girl. 

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “If you 
want to see her, just walk in and I will tell 
her. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Russel followed the rest into the old 
library, that at once she recognized as hav- 
ing seen in her dreams. She stood by the 
window, her face unnaturally pale. Presently 
the door opened and she turned as if to greet 
an old friend. She saw a lady with a wealth 


209 


of snow white hair advance straight toward 
her, who, when she saw Mrs. Russel’s face, 
uttered a cry of joy, and clasped her in her 
arms, murmuring: 

“She has come back; I know that my 
love is saved and waiting for me.” 

On looking at Leona she said, “Excuse 
me, madam, I know my conduct must appear 
wild and strange to you. You so closely re- 
semble one who was a dear friend of mine, 
that I thought at first you were she. But 
she was your age when I first knew her and 
that was many years ago.” 

Turning to Mr. Russel she inquired what 
she could do for them, but she tottered and 
would have fallen had he not caught her in 
his strong arms, as she cried: 

“Dear God, am I mad? Ormond Radnor 
come back to life ? ’ ’ and she fell to trembling 
so violently that all united in soothing and 
comforting her. When she had grown calmer 
Mr. Russel explained to her why they had 
come, and how startled they were to find 
everything just as Leona had dreamed. He 
gave the manuscript to Mrs. Archibald and 


210 


told her that it would explain more fully 
than he could. 

The travelers were made as comfortable as 
was possible in the old house. Mrs. Archi- 
bald gave up her rooms to Mrs. and Mr. 
Russel, for she said, with a sweet smile, 
“they are the only homelike ones in the 
house and have been mine since I made 
this my home.“ 

When they were alone, Teona turned to 
Teon with a smile on her lips : 

^ ‘ Here it was, dear, that in my dreams I 
passed many happy hours with you.“ 

He kissed her fondly and said : 

‘ ‘ I am indeed a lucky fellow to have lived 
two lives in one century and loved the same 
sweet woman in both ! ’ ’ 

“I thought that was all bosh,” she gayly 
cried; “you know you don’t believe one 
word of it.” 

“Why, my bright darling, you don’t im- 
agine in the face of all the proof we have 
had, I am going to force myself to believe 
some other fellow loved you? No, indeed ! 
if I have to stretch my imagination at all, 


211 


I shall do so by making myself believe I was 
that lucKy fellow.’' 

In the night when Leona was fast asleep 
in his arms, he heard her murmur : 

‘‘Oh, my love, I am so happy. Kiss me, 
Ormond." 

“Hang it all," he muttered; “I am 
half jealous of that other fellow even if 
he was myself. I think I will change my 
name." 

In the morning Mrs. Archibald appeared 
with a tired look in her eyes and an unusual 
pallor on her sweet wrinkled face. After 
breakfast she took Mrs. Russell aside and 
whispered, 

“ I have read the manuscript, my dear, 
and it is the truth ; I am satisfied you are 
the dear friend that lived and loved before, 
and that I buried with my own hands. 
Come," vShe said, “bring your husband and 
I will show you the graves." 

Leona went in search of her husband, and 
found him with Miss Dormer out in the tan- 
gled shrubbery. They followed Mrs. Archi- 
bald, as she led them to a small enclosed 


212 


plot of ground, a blooming mass of flowers. 
Leaning upon the railing, she said: 

‘ ‘ I dug the graves with my own hands ; 
I worked in the silence of the night. I found 
you all down in that place of death, and the 
sight turned my hair snow white. I re- 
solved that the world must never know the 
truth. I hid you all in Paradise, you and 
your lover — beg pardon, your husband, un- 
derneath the moss and violets, and Paul, I 
concealed beneath a passion vine. Poor little 
Zura, faithful child, I buried first. 

‘ ‘ That is where Paul lies, in that corner, 
all alone, where I have left room for myself. 
You and your love, I buried in one grave,'’ 
looking at Leona and forgetting the others 
presence. ‘ ‘ When I found you his lips were 
pressed to yours in his last long kiss. Zura 
lies at your feet. I have marked the graves 
with flowers. There, underneath the violets 
you and your sweetheart sleep, and under- 
neath those pansies my lost love lies alone. 
But it won’t be for long, Paul,” she mur- 
mured ; ” it won’t be for long. ’ ’ 

During the quiet of the night she wan- 


213 


dered to the spot where Paul rested, and 
lying down by his grave fell asleep, never 
to wake again. They tenderly placed her by 
his side. After the last sad rites were over, 
Leona stood with her husband by the new 
made grave and said : 

^‘Come away, dear, I can’t bear it. I 
don’t believe in reincarnation, I never did. 
But there is .something we cannot under- 
stand. ’ ’ Then stooping down she picked a 
bunch of flowers, and with a wan smile said : 

“From your grave and mine, and yet we 
live and love. ’ ’ 


THK end. 


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